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THE  APPRECIATION 
I   OF  THE  DRAMA 


CHARLES    H.CAFFIN 


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THE  APPRECIATION   OF  THE  DRAMA 


Interior  of  the  Red  Bull  Theater;  one  of  the   few  that 

SURVIVED    to    the    RESTORATION. 
Visited  by  Pepys,  March  iS,  1661. 


THE    APPRECIATION 
OF  THE  DRAMA 


BT 

CHARLES  H.  CAFFIN 

Author  of  "  How  to  Study  Pictures,"  "  A  Child's 
Guide  to  Pictures,"  etc. 


NEW   YORK 

THE   BAKER    &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
The  Baker    &  Taylor  Company 


Published,  October,  1908 


Tht  Plimfton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


TO   FELLOW   PLAYGOERS 

WITH  you  in  mind  I  have  written  this 
book,  in  token  of  the  love  we  have  in 
common  for  the  theater.  Whether  we  know  it 
from  behind  the  Curtain  or  solely  from  the 
Front,  we  love  it  for  the  spell  that  it  wove 
about  our  wonder  as  children  and  around  our 
hearts  and  understanding  in  later  years,  and 
that  to  the  last  shall  haunt  our  imagination. 
We  love  it  alike  for  the  laughter  and  the  tears 
that  it  has  wrung  from  us;  as  well  for  drown- 
ing of  care  as  for  stimulus  to  thought;  scarcely 
less  for  its  parodies  on  men  and  things  than 
for  its  enrichment  of  our  knowledge  of  and  zest 
in  life,  for  the  broadening  of  our  sympathy  with 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  humanity.  Aye,  we 
love  it,  when  it  transports  us  to  the  heights  of 
spiritual  imagination,  or  tips  us  on  the  see-saw 
of  folly,  or  draws  us  down  through  dark  places 
of  sin  and  sorrow.  That  it  is  but  a  scene  of 
painted  illusion,  trod  by  shadows  of  the  real,  we 
know,  and  for  that  reason  believe  in  it  the  more. 

V 


To  Fellow  Playgoers 

For  we  see  therein  a  microcosm  of  the  drama 
of  our  own  lives,  as  we  make  our  entrances 
and  exits,  fuming  and  strutting  for  a  brief 
appearance,  loving,  laboring,  suffering,  fooling, 
and  rejoicing,  on  the  impalpable  stage  of  Eter- 
nity, whose  drop-cloths  are  the  mystery  of  the 
Universe. 

To  help  us  to  find  a  still  firmer  basis  of  con- 
viction for  this  love  of  ours  is  the  unpretending 
purpose  of 

The  Author. 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

PAGE 

I 

The  Audience    . 

1 

II 

The  Stage  —  Plastic 

.' 

23 

III 

The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

, 

48 

IV 

The  Actor    .... 

69 

V 

The  Play      .... 

100 

VI 

The  Material  of  the  Drama 

121 

VII 

Genesis  of  a  Plot 

. 

154 

VIII 

The  Introduction 

. 

179 

IX 

The  Development 

213 

X 

Climax  —  Denouement  — 

Catas 

- 

TROPHE           .... 

231 

XI 

The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

[ 

238 

XII 

The  American  Outlook 

. 

273 

Vll 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Interior  of  the  Red  Bull  Theater    .  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Greek  Theater 24 

Roman  Theater 32 

An  Early  English  Mystery  Play  ...  48 
Mystery    Performance    in    the    Fifteenth 

Century 68 

Mystery  Stage  in  the  Sixteenth  Century  100 

Old  Inn  Showing  Courtyard  for  Plays  122 

Interior  of  the  Swan  Theater     ....  154 

The  Olympian  Theater  at  Vicenza  .  .  180 
Italian   Comedy   Scene   of   the   Sixteenth 

Century 212 

Itahan   Tragedy   Scene  of  the   Sixteenth 

Century 232 

Scene  from  Corneille's  "Andromeda"       .  270 


IX 


THE  APPRECIATION  OF  THE  DRAMA 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   AUDIENCE 

THE  point  of  view  of  this  book  is  from  a 
comfortable  seat  in  front  of  the  curtain. 
We  may  study  the  drama  in  a  Hbrary  chair, 
regarding  it  as  a  branch  of  Uterature.  But  not 
on  the  present  occasion.  We  have  settled 
ourselves  in  our  chairs  and  await  the  rise  of 
the  curtain.  We  propose  to  confine  our  atten- 
tion to  what  is  visible  from  the  front  and  to 
any  reflections  aroused  thereby.  These  may 
suggest  comparisons  between  the  past  and  the 
present;  for  we  have  assumed  the  role  of  a  play- 
goer whose  experiences  date  back  indefinitely, 
but  whose  appreciation,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  has 
not  been  staled  by  repetition,  much  less  limited 
to  any  set  style.  We  are  to  have  long  memories 
but  open  minds. 

Meanwhile,  there  is  a  delay.     The  curtain  is 
due  to  rise,  but  the  orchestra  has  started  again 

1 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

its  opening  selection.  The  reason  may  be  the 
indifference  of  the  "star"  to  everything  except 
her  own  convenience  or  whim.  We  could  name 
names,  but  won't.  More  often  it  is  the  mana- 
ger's almost  necessary  concession  to  late  comers. 
He  would  save,  as  far  as  possible,  the  feelings 
of  his  punctual  patrons.  But,  even  so,  there 
will  be  a  rude  residuum  of  the  audience  to  whom 
the  feelings  of  others  are  a  matter  of  absolutely 
no  concern.  These  elegant  barbarians  will 
come  trailing  through  the  first  act;  groping  in 
the  darkness,  stumbling  over  other  people's 
toes,  blocking  out  the  view  of  the  stage,  dis- 
turbing the  continuity  of  the  dialogue,  and 
generally  without  a  word  of  apology  to  their 
victims,  as  if  they  had  a  special  permit  to  be 
ill-mannered. 

The  delay,  however,  gives  us  an  interval  for 
reflection.  I  propose  that  we  turn  the  spot- 
light on  ourselves.  We,  of  the  audience,  what 
are  we  ?  Why  are  we  here  ?  With  what  sort 
of  minds  and  purposes  have  we  paid  our  money  ? 

For  the  time  being,  if  you  come  to  think  of 
it,  we  have  taken  off  not  only  our  wraps,  but 
something  of  our  individuality.  AVe  have 
merged  our  separate  identities  into  that  curi- 

2 


The  Audience 

ously  conglomerate  thing,  a  mob,  a  crowd, 
an  audience;  and,  as  always  in  this  mundane 
scheme  of  things,  in  losing  one  thing  we  have 
gained  something  else. 

Students  of  the  psychology  of  crowds  have 
noted,  though  they  cannot  explain,  certain 
phenomena.  A  crowd  can  be  swayed  in  this  or 
that  direction  by  the  word  of  one.  It  will  reach 
an  extreme  of  feeling  of  which  the  individuals 
composing  it,  would  probably  be  incapable. 
At  first,  the  feeling  may  be  one  of  vague  appre- 
hension. Here  and  there  this  takes  clearer 
shape,  colored  by  the  idiosyncrasy  of  individuals; 
it  grows  by  contagion:  the  air  becomes  impreg- 
nated with  it;  it  catches  up  into  its  circle  of  in- 
fluence those  who  hitherto  had  held  aloof;  and 
gradually  the  consciousness  of  the  whole  body 
becomes  affected;  at  first  to  be  possessed  with 
a  diversity  of  impressions,  which,  however,  it  by 
degrees  assimilates,  until  at  last  a  fixed  idea 
has  taken  possession  of  the  crowd  or  audience. 
The  result  may  be  a  lynching,  or  the  unanimous 
acceptance  or  condemnation  of  a  new  play. 

Compare  this  with  the  reading  of  a  play  by 
oneself  in  the  library.  Here  one  has  a  fixed  idea 
at  the  start  —  one's  own  individual  bundle  of 

3 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

experiences,  preferences,  and  prejudices.  As 
one  reads,  each  character,  incident,  and  speech 
is  subjected  to  the  test  of  this.  We  are  not 
surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  hushed  ex- 
pectancy or  rapt  attention.  Our  attention  is 
not  diverted  by  a  laugh  here  and  there,  a  sob 
elsewhere,  a  spontaneous  burst  of  applause 
from  somewhere  else.  There  is  no  repeated 
suggestion  from  others  that  there  may  be  more 
in  the  play  than  what  we  find  in  it;  nothing  of 
the  reinforcement  of  our  own  judgment  that 
comes  from  finding  it  shared  by  others.  We 
never  lose  hold  of  ourselves;  all  the  time  we  are 
individual  readers  in  presence  of  an  individual 
author,  judging  him  solely  by  the  application 
of  his  writing  to  our  own  specific  experience 
and  taste;  apt  to  be  unduly  pleased  by  what 
exactly  fits  our  own  case,  doubtful,  or  even 
resentful,  of  what  doesn't. 

Lastly,  we  weigh  the  pros  and  cons  of  our 
appreciation  primarily  and  almost  exclusively 
by  the  appeal  which  the  play  makes  to  our 
minds.  We  may  persuade  ourselves  that  we 
realize  the  characters  and  visualize  the  incidents, 
but  even  so,  the  impressions  formed  are  solely 
mental  ones.     We  do  not  really  see  with  our 

4 


The  Audience 

eyes  the  people  and  the  incidents.  Yet  the  very 
essence  of  a  drama  is  that  it  is  unfolded  to  our 
actual  sight,  that  it  is  a  visible  representation 
of  character  and  incident.  Even  more,  it  is  a 
representation  that  appeals  to  our  sense  of  hear- 
ing. There  is  probably  not  one  reader  in  a 
thousand  —  no  one,  I  will  venture  to  say,  who 
has  not  trained  his  own  voice  and  made  a  study 
of  the  effects  of  vocal  sounds  —  that  can  form 
a  mental  conception  of  how  the  drama  will 
affect  the  mind  when  the  speeches  reach  it 
audibly,  colored  as  they  will  be  by  the  vocal 
qualities,  peculiar  to  each  character  and  affected 
by  the  various  incidents. 

Indeed,  it  is  only  when  the  impression  of  the 
drama  reaches  us  through  the  avenues  of  sight 
and  sound,  that  we  can  fully  realize  its  import. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  the  mental  impression 
that  the  words  convey  is  not  heightened,  when 
the  action  is  represented  to  eye  and  ear,  then 
the  play  may  be  one  of  absorbing  interest,  but 
it  is  for  the  library,  not  the  theater.  It  is  a 
literary  masterpiece,  maybe;  but  not  a  stage- 
drama.  Indeed,  the  very  word  drama,  bodily 
preserved  since  the  days  of  the  Athenian  theater, 
implies  this.     It  is  derived  from  a  verb,  mean- 

5 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ing  "to  do";  and  the  drama  is  the  deed  shown 
in  the  doing,  —  the  portrayal  of  the  action. 
A  play  was  diJBferent  from  a  poem  or  narrative, 
because  it  represented  in  visible  shape  the  doing 
of  the  deed  involved.  In  the  most  primitive 
form  known  to  students  —  as,  for  example, 
among  the  bushmen  of  Australia,  where  some 
of  the  actors  represent  animals  while  others 
hunt  them  —  the  drama  is  purely  one  of  repre- 
senting the  doing  of  the  action.  But  the  civi- 
hzed  development,  even  in  its  rudimentary 
form,  included  the  accompaniment  of  voice. 
The  action  was  further  illuminated  by  descrip- 
tive speeches  or  actual  dialogue. 

So  that,  as  we  conceive  of  drama  now,  sight 
and  sound  are  essential  to  its  proper  apprecia- 
tion. The  sight  of  the  characters  and  incidents 
must  add  vividness  to  our  appreciation  of  the 
mental  impression;  the  sound  of  the  voices,  as 
illustrative  of  character,  and  affected  by  the 
situations  in  which  the  personages  find  them- 
selves, must  add  color  to  the  impression.  I 
repeat,  it  is  because  an  author  has  not  felt  the 
need  of  or  made  provision  for  these  essential 
accompaniments  to  the  merely  mental  sugges- 
tion of  the  dialogues,  that  some  plays  of  great 

6 


The  Audience 

literary  excellence  are  not  acceptable  as  stage 
dramas.  To  discover  the  value  and  character 
of  these  sight  and  sound  accompaniments  is 
one  of  the  objects  of  this  book. 

Ludwig,  the  mad  king  of  Bavaria,  indulged 
in  the  luxury  of  a  theater  of  his  own,  in  which 
companies  performed  with  him  as  sole  audience. 
The  mental  impression  reached  him,  reinforced 
by  sight  and  sound.  But  think  of  the  empty 
hush  of  that  theater  occupied  by  only  one 
man.  That  one  sat  alone,  in  the  darkened 
auditorium,  absorbing  into  his  single  self  the 
visible,  audible,  and  mental  impressions  that 
were  meant  to  be  shared  by  a  crowd.  Was  it 
the  strain  of  this  upon  one  human  brain  that 
helped  to  drive  him  mad,  or  the  madness  already 
in  him  that  with  abnormal  effrontery  dared  to 
experience  these  multiple  sensations  in  his 
single  self.^ 

For  it  is  this  multiplication  of  sensations, 
as  we  have  already  hinted,  that  takes  place  in 
an  audience.  One  may  compare  it  to  the  dis- 
charge of  a  gun  in  a  natural  auditorium  among 
the  mountains.  There  is  first  the  single  pop 
of  sound  —  corresponding  to  the  single  impres- 
sion that  a  reader  receives  in  the  solitude  of  his 

7 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

library  from  the  words  he  is  reading  and  the 
idea  contained  in  them.  But  among  the  moun- 
tains the  single  sound  is  echoed  here  and  echoed 
there,  and  the  echoes  themselves  are  caught  up 
and  flung  back  from  other  heights,  until  the 
whole  mountain  auditorium  reverberates,  and 
the  single  note  has  grown  into  a  thunderous 
roar. 

In  a  theater  audience  there  is  some  such  cor- 
responding multiplication  of  sensations.  The 
necessary  thing  to  arouse  it  is  some  gunshot  in 
the  drama,  that  will  awaken  echoes  in  a  diver- 
sity of  minds.  The  audience  itself  will  do  the 
rest;  probably  cannot  help  doing  it.  That  it 
involves  these  gunshots  is  another  cause  of  a 
drama  being  a  good  acting  play;  while  the  ab- 
sence of  them  relegates  other  dramas  to  the 
library  alone.  To  try  to  discover  the  nature 
of  these  gunshots  is  another  of  the  objects  of 
this  book. 

Already  we  may  be  sure  that  they  do  not 
depend  upon  any  one  quality,  or  upon  the  appeal 
to  a  few  minds  alone.  They  must  address 
themselves  to  the  minds  of  many;  indeed,  it 
may  almost  be  said  that  they  must  be  capable 
of  appealing  to  the  individual  minds  of  every 

8 


The  Audience 

one  in  the  audience,  just  as  each  projection  on 
the  mountain  sides  is  reached  by  the  echoes  of 
that  gun  discharge. 

This  seems  to  imply  that  a  good  acting  play 
must  have  the  elements  of  popularity.  But 
the  use  of  this  word  is  apt  to  convey  a  sugges- 
tion of  inferiority,  of  something  whose  standard 
is  lowered  to  suit  the  popular  taste.  And  cer- 
tainly the  popular  taste  does  frequently  incline 
toward  what  is  worthless,  whether  judged  as  a 
representation  of  life  or  from  the  point  of  view 
of  art.  Yet  a  few  nights  later  one  of  these 
same  popular  audiences  will  be  applauding 
Shakespeare.  There  is  no  getting  away  from 
the  fact,  that  the  latter,  while  he  appeals  to 
minds  of  the  finest  culture,  is  popular  with 
every  class  of  people,  except  those  few  who  are 
given  over  entirely  to  levity.  I  don't  know 
what  manager  was  responsible  for  the  statement, 
so  often  repeated,  that  "Shakespeare  spells 
ruin."  If  the  words  mean  anything,  they  must 
refer  to  the  unwisdom  of  spending  large  sums 
on  a  single  production.  If,  however,  they  in- 
volve the  insinuation  that  a  manager  cannot 
live  by  producing  Shakespeare,  the  falsehood 
is  demonstrated   by  the  experience   of  a  con- 

9 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

siderable  number,  both  in  this  country  and  in 
England.  Especially  in  the  industrial  centers, 
where  men  and  women  know  the  rigor  of  life  in 
its  most  stringent  form,  Shakespeare  is  popular. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  true  to  say 
that  Ibsen  is  not  popular.  While  his  plays 
are  steadily  winning  increased  approval  from 
thoughtful  people,  they  are  still  caviare  to 
general  audiences;  and  perhaps  always  will  be. 
Yet  even  as  I  write  this,  I  recall  a  recent  per- 
formance of  The  Master  Builder,  given  by  the 
Russian  actress  Madame  Komisarzhevsky  and 
her  company.  The  audience,  composed  mainly 
of  Russians  and  Yiddish  Jews,  seemed  mixed 
enough;  but  its  interest  was  unquestionably 
hearty,  and  apparently  aroused  as  much  by 
the  play  as  by  the  actors.  Yet  we  must  admit 
that  among  mixed  audiences  of  English-speak- 
ing people,  Ibsen  is  not  popular.  Whether 
this  is  the  result  of  some  inherent  defect  in  his 
plays,  as  compared,  for  example,  with  those  of 
Shakespeare,  we  will  inquire  later.  Meanwhile 
one  reason  of  his  want  of  popularity  is  clear 
enough.  He  invites  his  audiences  to  think. 
If  they  will  not  or  cannot,  they  are  bored. 

This  raises  the  question  as  to  why  people  go 

10 


The  Audience 

to  the  theater.  The  fundamental  reason,  I 
suppose,  is  the  gregarious  tendency  of  human 
nature.  Men  and  women,  tiring  of  themselves 
and  hungry  for  the  companionship  of  their  kind, 
flock  to  summer  resorts,  churches,  hotels,  con- 
cert rooms,  theaters,  even  into  the  streets.  It 
is  this  tendency  that  helped  to  change  the  nomad 
life  into  that  of  village  communities;  that,  in 
our  own  day,  has  had  its  share  in  drawing 
people  from  the  country  to  cities,  where  the 
flocking  opportunities  are  greatest  and  most 
accessible.  But  the  wear  and  tear  of  these 
gregarious  conditions  produces  a  reaction. 
There  is  a  yearly  increase,  for  example,  in  the 
number  of  persons  who,  being  in  a  position  to 
decide  how  they  will  spend  their  summers, 
select  a  quiet  spot  where  the  reverse  of  these 
conditions  prevails.  They  wish  to  get  away 
by  themselves.  How  frequently,  too,  one  hears 
some  one  remark  that  he  or  she  is  tired  of 
theaters;  that  a  quiet  reading  of  a  play  at  home 
is  preferable.  They  may  go  on  to  explain  that, 
the  older  they  grow,  the  more  they  are  inclined 
to  choose  their  own  forms  of  entertainment, 
and  the  less  disposed  to  accept  those  which  are 
served  up  by  others  whose   business  it  is  to 

11 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

cater  for  the  largest  number.  Their  taste  has 
become  too  exacting,  or,  at  least,  too  individual, 
to  submit  to  the  contagion  of  the  general  taste. 
They  have,  in  fact,  lost  the  willingness  to  sur- 
render a  portion  of  themselves  to  the  aggregate 
of  a  crowd  or  audience. 

But  we  were  speaking  of  people  who  do  go 
to  theaters.  I  suppose  if  you  were  to  canvas 
a  number  of  these  as  to  why  they  go,  a  frequent 
answer  would  be  —  "Because  I  wish  to  be 
amused."  Some  would  put  it  more  strongly 
—  "Because  I  wish  to  get  away  from  the  ennui 
of  life  or  the  worries  of  business."  They  will 
very  likely  add  —  "I  have  so  much  thinking 
to  do  in  business  that,  when  I  go  to  the  theater, 
I  don't  wish  to  be  asked  to  think.  I  simply 
hope  to  be  amused."  One  lady  was  overheard  to 
remark  at  a  performance  of  The  Master  Builder, 
in  which  Hilda  appears  throughout  the  piece 
in  a  simple  costume  —  "I  don't  care  for  Ibsen; 
I  love  a  play  like  The  Thief,  where  the  leading 
lady  wears  three  different  beautiful  gowns." 
Apparently  this  lady's  reason  for  going  to  the 
theater  was  partly  the  same  that  draws  her  to 
a  department  store  —  to  see  the  latest  models 
from  Paris.     And  a  similar  love  of  pretty  dresses, 

12 


The  Audience 

attached  to  a  pretty  face,  attracts  the  business 
man  who  only  wishes  to  be  amused. 

Many  repHes,  on  the  other  hand,  would 
admit  that  the  *'star"  performer  was  the  chief 
motive  for  visiting  the  theater.  The  play  itself 
was  of  secondary  consideration. 

So  far,  the  answers  that  have  come  in  rather 
seem  to  justify  those  persons  who  prefer  to 
choose  their  own  form  of  entertainment.  Why 
should  they  identify  themselves  with  a  crowd 
that  is  seeking  only  to  be  amused,  or  swell  the 
triumph  of  a  popular  but  possibly  indifferent 
"star".? 

A  very  large  portion,  however,  of  the  average 
audience  has  yet  to  be  heard  from.  It  is  that 
contingent  of  younger  theater-goers  who  still 
have  the  enthusiasms  of  youth,  who  look  to  the 
stage  for  a  picture  of  life,  especially  the  adven- 
turous and  sentimental  aspects  of  it.  They,  too, 
hope  to  be  amused,  but  their  motive  also  in- 
cludes a  higher  need  of  entertainment.  They 
are  not  satisfied  with  a  mere  tickling  of  their 
senses;  they  wish  to  receive  through  their  senses 
a  stimulus  to  their  minds  —  an  enlargement  of 
experience,  a  broader  vision  of  the  possibilities 
of  life. 

13 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Lastly,  there  is  that  necessarily  smaller  por- 
tion of  the  audience,  which  desires  a  form  of 
entertainment  that  with  less  reliance  on  the 
sensibilities  appeals  more  directly  to  the  mind. 
They,  in  their  turn,  are  not  satisfied  with  the 
crude  and  elementary  manifestations  of  emo- 
tion; they  wish  to  view  them  in  relation  to  the 
real  problems  of  life.  They  demand  that  the 
play  shall  have  some  sort  of  ethical  significance. 

In  this  respect  they  are  at  one  with  the  person 
who  finds  his  own  entertainment  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  his  library.  But  they  differ  from  him, 
because  they  are  not  satisfied  with  a  purely 
mental  impression;  they  wish  the  latter  to  be 
reinforced  and  enriched  with  the  impressions 
of  sight  and  sound. 

The  result,  then,  of  the  voting  seems  to  have 
established  four  reasons  why  people  go  to 
theaters.  Throwing  to  one  side  a  few  straggling 
replies  —  to  wit  —  *'I  go  because  it  is  the 
correct  thing;  because  I  wish  to  show  off  my 
fine  clothes;  or  because,  like  Pepys,  I  have  to 
take  my  wife,  *she,  poor  fool,  having  nothing 
better  to  do'";  neglecting  these  and  sundry 
other  separate  ones,  we  divide  the  remaining 
votes  into  four  heaps.     The  first,  a  big  one 

14 


The  Audience 

proves  that  a  considerable  part  of  audiences  is 
satisfied  to  have  its  senses  stimulated  with 
what  is  pleasant  to  ear  and  eye.  It  is  partial 
to  shows  and  spectacles.  The  second  demand 
humor  with  or  without  spectacular  accom- 
paniment. The  third,  which  is  probably  as 
large  as  the  two  previous  ones  added  together, 
is  fond  of  the  spectacular  and  humorous,  but 
first  and  foremost  expects  to  have  its  feelings 
and  emotions  aroused.  While  the  fourth,  com- 
paratively a  small  one,  is  not  satisfied  unless 
the  emotions  in  which  they  are  asked  to  share 
are  exhibited  in  their  moral  or  ethical  relation 
to  the  actual  conditions  of  life  and  society. 

Now  since  the  drama  is  to-day,  as  it  always 
has  been,  a  democratic  institution,  depending 
on  the  will  of  the  people,  plays  will  be  pro- 
duced which  will  satisfy  each  of  these  four 
kinds  of  theater-goers.  Therefore,  while  the 
object  of  this  book  is  to  raise  the  standard  of 
taste  and  stimulate  an  appreciation  of  the 
highest,  it  would  be  foolish  to  contend  that  only 
the  latter  is  worthy  of  support.  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  rather  inclined  to  the  belief  that  a 
genuine  play-lover  should  be  able  to  enjoy 
each  and  all  of  these  four  kinds  of  play,  and,  if 

15 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

he  is  to  be  a  real  student  of  the  drama,  will 
recognize  its  necessary  many-sidedness  and  be 
slow  to  reject  any  one  phase  as  irrelevant  or 
unimportant.  Nor  does  this  imply  an  easy 
and  uncritical  acceptance  of  everything  pro- 
duced upon  the  stage.  He  will  still  demand  of 
each  play  that  it  shall  be  up  to  the  best  standard 
permitted  to  its  own  class. 

To  admit  the  desirableness  of  such  open- 
mindedness  is  to  recognize,  that  it  is  well  with 
us  if  our  own  natures  are  correspondingly  com- 
posite in  character;  that  our  senses,  as  well  as 
our  minds,  are  or  should  be  a  respectable  pos- 
session, fit  to  be  acknowledged  and  catered 
for;  that  we  have  feelings  as  well  as  intellectual- 
ity, and  are  to  be  congratulated,  if,  while  we 
grow  old,  we  can  still  possess  some  of  the  joy  in 
foolishness  that  distinguished  our  youth.  On 
the  other  hand,  to  those  of  my  readers  who  are 
still  in  the  latter  happy  period,  I  would  suggest 
that,  if  the  maturer,  serious  form  of  the  drama 
fails  to  attract  them,  that  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  Appreciation  is  a  product  of  growth  in  life 
and  personal  development,  and  just  as  the 
drama  itself  in  all  ages  has  kept  pace  with  the 
development  of  the  people,  so  our  appreciation 

16 


The  Audience 

of  it  corresponds  to  our  own  individual  growth. 
Some  people,  it  is  true,  may  never  progress 
beyond  the  child-stage  of  wishing  to  be  amused; 
or  the  adolescent  period  of  sentiment;  but  the 
majority,  I  believe,  have  at  least  the  capacity 
to  develop  into  that  condition  of  maturity  in 
which  sentiment  and  emotion  are  no  longer 
viewed  in  a  purely  personal  way,  but  in  their 
relation  to  the  ethical  and  moral. 

But  the  preferences  of  audiences  are  not  the 
only  point  to  be  considered.  There  is  another 
—  their  responsibility.  How  far  are  we  who 
compose  the  audiences  responsible  for  the 
quality  of  the  plays  produced  ?  It  is  customary 
to  speak  as  if  the  responsibility  rested  solely 
on  the  managers,  and  there  was  nothing  left 
to  audiences  but  to  take  what  is  offered  them. 

The  usual  reason  given  for  such  an  attitude 
is  the  fact,  that  in  America  the  control  of  the 
theaters  and  of  the  plays  produced  and  of  the 
actors  who  take  part  in  them  is  practically 
centered  in  the  hands  of  one  group  of  individuals, 
who  for  purposes  of  business  have  merged 
their  several  identities  in  a  common  policy. 
Thus  there  is  an  end  of  competition,  and  of  the 
free   interplay   of   supply   and    demand.     This 

17 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

is  the  first  charge  and  the  second  follows  hard 
upon  it.  Since  the  policy  of  the  syndicate  is 
necessarily  a  business  one,  it  is  assumed  to  be 
nothing  else.  It  is  merely  commercial.  But 
on  the  face  of  them  these  two  charges  seem  to 
contradict  each  other.  If  the  policy  does  not 
result  in  supplying  what  is  demanded,  it  will 
not  be  commercially  successful;  or,  inversely, 
the  fact  that  audiences  are  willing  to  pay  their 
money  seems  to  show  that  they  are  getting  what 
they  want;  that,  in  fact,  their  demand  is  being 
supplied.  The  only  way  of  avoiding  this  con- 
tradiction is  to  assume,  that  it  is  not  because 
audiences  want  these  plays  that  they  pay  their 
money  and  make  them  commercially  success- 
ful, but  because  they  cannot  do  without  plays 
and  those  are  the  only  ones  available.  Well, 
for  my  own  part,  I  will  not  grant  this;  nor  will 
I  admit  that,  if  the  policy  of  the  syndicate  is 
merely  commercial,  the  fact  exonerates  the 
audiences.  On  the  contrary,  the  evidence  sug- 
gests that  audiences,  considered  in  mass,  want 
what  they  get  and  get  what  they  want;  and  that 
the  commercialism  that  we  deplore  is  not 
foisted  upon  us  by  a  callous  syndicate  but  is 
inherent  in  ourselves. 

18 


The  Audience 

For  what  is  our  standard  of  appreciation? 
How  do  We  judge  the  merit  of  a  novel  or  a  play  ? 
Is  it  not,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  by  the  number 
of  copies  sold  in  one  case,  and  in  the  other  by 
the  number  of  people  that  are  attracted  to  the 
theater?  The  one  is  a  "best  seller";  the  other 
a  **big  attraction,"  and,  in  each  case,  impressed 
by  the  number  of  dollars  that  have  been  amassed, 
we  hasten  to  add  our  own.  We  are  not,  as  a 
community,  given  over  entirely  to  the  pursuit 
of  the  dollar;  but  the  dollar  is  the  standard  by 
which  we  are  far  too  prone  to  estimate  the  value 
of  men  and  things.  The  result  is  an  appalling 
amount  of  vulgarity  of  taste,  or,  at  best,  an 
amazing  levity  that  habitually  refuses  to  regard 
anything  but  money  seriously.  It  is,  of  course, 
not  due  to  lack  of  intelligence,  but  to  the  fact 
that  we  are  not  accustomed  to  refer  to  our  in- 
telligence as  a  guide  of  taste.  We  follow  the 
crowd,  and  the  crowd  is  commercial  to  the  core. 

If  this  is  so,  it  is  the  veriest  hypocrisy  to  lay 
the  blame  for  the  present  commercialism  of 
our  stage  upon  a  handful  of  men,  who  are  a 
product  of  the  community,  and  in  a  sense  its  ser- 
vants. For  after  all  they  are  compelled  by 
their  own  purpose  of  making  money  to  give  the 

19 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

community  what  the  majority  of  it  seems  to 
want.  Nor  within  these  limitations  can  they 
be  accused  of  parsimony.  They  search  at  home 
and  abroad  for  the  kind  of  plays  that  audiences 
have  endorsed  or  that  it  seems  likely  they  will 
endorse,  and,  when  found,  produce  them  with- 
out stint  of  money.  Often,  it  is  true,  without 
much  taste  or  intelligence;  but  these  are  requi- 
sites to  which  they  have  good  reason  to  believe 
the  majority  of  their  audiences  are  indifferent. 
In  that  which  does  interest  the  latter  —  the 
money  question  —  they  are  reasonably  lavish. 

Nor  are  the  efforts  made  by  certain  indepen- 
dent managers  to  appeal  to  the  taste  and  in- 
telligence of  audiences  crowned  with  sufficient 
reward  to  tempt  the  syndicate  to  follow  their 
example.  If  the  response  were  hearty  and  wide- 
spread, we  should  be  justified  in  complaining 
if  the  syndicate  failed  to  cater  to  it.  As  it  is, 
honesty  should  compel  us  to  admit  that  they 
would  be  fools  if  they  did. 

But  the  tone  of  this  book  is  not  to  be  one  of 
pessimism.  On  the  contrary,  it  has  its  origin 
in  the  belief  that  the  condition  of  the  drama  in 
America  is  improving  steadily,  if  slowly,  because 
there  is  a  growing  number  among  audiences 

20 


The  Audience 

whose  appreciation  is  founded  upon  good  taste 
and  intelligence.  And  its  purpose  is  to  try 
and  increase  the  pace  and  volume  of  improve- 
ment by  stimulating  in  the  minds  of  a  greater 
number  this  sort  of  appreciation.  Therefore 
we  have  made  the  subject  of  the  first  chapter 
the  audience  itself;  believing  that  upon  it  in 
the  final  analysis  depends  the  conditions  as 
well  as  the  appreciation  of  the  drama  in  our 
own  day. 

For,  whether  we  think  of  audiences  as  the 
mine  from  which  the  dramatist  digs  his  metal, 
or  as  the  tribunal  to  which  his  finished  work 
appeals,  the  more  we  realize  that  we  ourselves 
are  mainly  responsible  for  the  condition  of  the 
drama  in  our  own  times.  Indeed,  I  cannot  see 
how  any  practical  improvement  in  the  appre- 
ciation of  the  drama  can  be  reached,  except 
through  this  clear  understanding  at  the  start: 
that  it  is  a  product  of  what  we,  the  audiences, 
may  happen  to  be.  In  primitive  times,  the 
actors  and  the  poet  or  dramatist  actually  stepped 
out  from  the  ring  of  the  audience,  to  entertain 
their  fellows.  They  were,  for  the  time  being, 
the  mouthpieces  and  enactors  of  ideas  they 
shared   with   the   community.     Long   ago,    the 

21 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

casual  performance  at  a  festival  became  spe- 
cialized into  an  art,  with  its  professedly  trained 
exponents;  but  the  essential  unity  of  audience 
and  drama  still  remains. 

Let  us  of  the  audience  realize  our  responsi- 
bilities. 


22 


p 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   STAGE PLASTIC 

RIOR  to  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 


tury audiences  were  not  separated  from 
the  stage  by  a  curtain.  And  a  hundred  years 
elapsed  before  this  Italian  device  was  adopted 
in  the  theaters  of  France,  England,  Germany, 
and  Spain.  This  matter  of  the  curtain  repre- 
sents the  dividing  line  between  the  old  and 
the  modern  representation  of  the  drama.  In 
the  days  before  the  adoption  of  the  curtain,  the 
stage  projected  into  the  audience,  and  the 
actors  and  the  stage  fittings  were  seen,  as  sculp- 
tors would  say,  *'in  the  round."  The  effect  of 
the  actors  was  somewhat  that  of  moving  sculp- 
ture, the  character  of  the  representation  was 
plastic.  But  with  the  use  of  a  curtain,  enclosed 
by  a  proscenium  arch,  the  effect  of  the  actors 
and  the  stage  setting  became  rather  that  of  a 
picture  in  its  frame.  The  general  appearance 
of  the  scene  was  no  longer  plastic  but  pictorial. 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

To  the  plastic  stage  belong  Greek  drama  and 
the  Mediaeval  religious  and  secular  plays  and 
the  whole  cycle  of  Elizabethan  drama.  It  will 
be  worth  while  to  review  briefly  the  character 
of  these  older  forms  of  representation,  and, 
having  done  so,  to  note  the  changes  wrought 
by  the  pictorial  system,  both  in  its  effect  upon 
the  audience  and  upon  the  stage-settings.  A 
comparison  of  the  two  may  lead  us  to  discover 
that,  on  the  one  hand,  we  have  lost  something 
by  cutting  loose  so  completely  from  the  plastic, 
and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  still  hold  by 
the  pictorial,  it  is  capable  of  more  development 
than  modern  custom  permits. 

The  chief  advantage  of  the  pictorial  method 
is  that  it  creates  an  illusion  of  reality  in  the 
environment.  The  characters  themselves  are 
not  necessarily  made  to  seem  more  real,  but 
there  is  a  suggestion  of  reality  in  the  scene  in 
which  they  play  their  part.  This  was  unques- 
tionably the  reason  for  its  adoption,  and  it  is  as 
noteworthy  as  it  was  natural,  that  the  change 
should  have  been  made  by  the  Italians,  during 
their  great  period  of  pictorial  art. 

For  the  representation  of  a  play  must  approxi- 
mate to  the  effects  of  the  Fine  Arts :  architecture, 

24 


H 
< 

a 

X 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

sculpture,  and  painting.  In  the  great  days  of 
Athens,  as  during  the  Middle  Ages,  the  fine 
arts,  most  highly  developed,  were  architecture 
and  sculpture.  Therefore  it  is  not  surprising 
to  us  that  the  representation  of  the  drama  of 
those  periods  partook  of  the  plastic  character. 
Similarly,  the  fact  that,  though  the  Italians  of 
the  Renaissance  excelled  in  architecture  and 
sculpture,  their  greatest  contribution  to  the 
Fine  Arts  was  in  painting,  made  it  eminently 
natural  that  they  should  give  a  pictorial  charac- 
ter to  stage  representations.  Each  case  pre- 
sents only  another  instance  of  how  the  drama 
grows  out  of  and  reflects  the  civilization  of  its 
time. 

No  remains  of  stone  theaters  have  been  dis- 
covered, earlier  in  date  than  the  theater  of 
Dionysos  in  Athens,  which  was  completed  in 
B.C.  325,  that  is  to  say,  eighty-one  years  after 
the  death  of  Euripides,  the  latest  of  the  classic 
tragedians.  His  dramas  and  those  of  Sophocles 
and  iEschylus  were  performed  in  temporary 
wooden  theaters,  similar  in  plan  and  general 
character  to  the  type  that  subsequently  pre- 
vailed in  the  more  enduring  and  sumptuous 
theaters,  erected  throughout  the  Greek  world. 

25 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

It  is  only  within  the  past  twenty  years  that  the 
type  has  been  ascertained  with  reasonable  cer- 
tainty, through  the  archaeological  researches  of 
the  German  architect,  Wilhelm  Dorpfeld.  The 
chief  fact  which  he  established  was  the  falsity 
of  the  old  theory  that  the  Greek  drama  was 
performed  on  an  elevated  stage. 

The  plan  of  the  Greek  theater  was  a  semi- 
circle or  three  quarters  of  a  circle,  with  a  flat 
side  that  formed  the  back  of  the  stage.  If 
possible,  a  site  was  chosen  with  a  natural  horse- 
shoe of  rising  ground,  that  would  afford  seats 
for  the  spectators.  In  other  cases,  the  amphi- 
theater was  hollowed  out  of  the  sides  of  a  hill 
in  terraces;  or,  when  this  was  not  possible, 
wooden  scaffolding  in  tiers  was  erected  in  place 
of  the  rising  ground.  It  is  on  record  that, 
during  the  performance  of  one  of  the  plays  of 
^schylus,  the  collapse  of  a  scaffolding  of  this 
sort  caused  considerable  loss  of  life  and  limb. 
It  was  this  horseshoe  of  seats  that  the  Greeks 
originally  termed  a  "theater."  The  latter, 
therefore,  corresponds  to  our  word  "audi- 
torium," except  that  with  us  the  auditorium 
also  includes  the  floor  space  occupied  by  the 
orchestra    stalls.     This    circular    space    in    the 

26 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

Greek  theater  was,  as  in  our  theaters,  called 
the  orchestra,  but  instead  of  being  filled  with 
spectators,  was  the  actual  stage.  The  drama 
was  performed  on  what  we  now  call  the  floor 
of  the  auditorium.  The  Greek  audience  en- 
circled this  space  on  three  sides,  the  spectators 
in  the  front  row  having  their  feet  on  a  level  with 
the  stage,  the  others  lifted  above  it  in  rising 
tiers.  Thus  every  one,  whether  on  a  level  or 
looking  down  from  above,  had  a  complete  view 
of  the  actors,  who  in  the  course  of  the  action 
would  simultaneously  present  the  various  sides 
of  their  persons  to  various  parts  of  the  audience. 
The  effect,  in  fact,  was  as  though  a  horseshoe 
ring  of  spectators  should  assemble  round  a 
group  of  statues. 

This  simple  arrangement  of  spectators  and 
stage  was  the  natural  outgrowth  of  the  develop- 
ment of  the  Greek  drama  itself.  The  latter  in 
Greece,  as  everywhere  else  in  the  world,  grew 
out  of  a  religious  festival.  On  the  days  devoted 
to  the  special  worship  of  Dionysos,  as  represent- 
ing the  procreative  force  in  nature,  the  whole 
community,  headed  by  the  priest,  wended  their 
way  in  procession  to  the  sacred  spot,  occupied 
by  the  altar  of  the  god.     Originally  the  sacri- 

27 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

fice  was  a  human  Hfe;  but,  as  manners  became 
softened,  a  goat  (tragos)  was  substituted. 
Minghng  in  the  hue  of  villagers  were  young 
men,  clothed  in  goat-skins,  and  young  girls, 
carrying  baskets  of  offerings  for  the  god.  The 
altar  reached,  the  villagers  would  form  a  ring 
about  it;  while  the  priest,  standing  on  the  altar 
platform,  performed  the  sacrifice,  received  the 
offerings,  and,  having  finished  the  ceremony, 
turned  about  to  the  audience  and  told  them  of 
the  god,  his  greatness,  death,  and  resurrection. 
Meanwhile,  for  it  was  a  people's  festival,  demo- 
cratic in  its  conception  and  carrying  out,  the 
young  men  clad  in  goat-skins  had  gathered 
round  the  priest  and,  by  their  antics  and  sallies 
of  homely  wit,  adorned  the  priest's  tale  and 
pointed  the  rude  moral.  So  popular  were  they 
with  the  audience  of  worshipers,  that  in  time 
the  priest  took  them  in  hand  and  trained  them 
to  act  in  concert  with  one  another  and  himself. 
To  a  slow  chant  they  sang  the  praises  of  the 
god,  dancing  and  moving  their  bodies  and  limbs 
in  the  measured  cadence  of  the  **  Dithyramb." 
It  was  but  a  step  from  this  to  some  form  of  dia- 
logue between  the  priest  and  his  chorus;  and 
but   another   to   changing   the    subject   of   the 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

dialogue  and  dithyramb  from  Dionysos  to  some 
other  god  or  hero;  the  performance  still  being 
given  around  the  altar  in  the  midst  of  a  ring 
of  spectators.  From  this  simple  beginning,  of 
the  sacrifice  of  a  goat  (tragos)  and  the  dance 
and  chant  of  the  dithyramb,  developed  the  tragic 
drama  of  the  classic  period;  while  the  corre- 
spondingly early  and  simple  pranks  of  a  band 
of  revelers  {komos),  caricaturing  their  neigh- 
bors, produced  in  time  the  classic  comedies  of 
Aristophanes.  Both  the  tragic  and  the  comic 
preserved  the  recollection  of  their  origin  in  the 
raised  altar  that  occupied  the  center  of  the  cir- 
cular stage. 

In  time,  however,  the  religious  features  be- 
came secondary  to  the  idea  of  entertainment; 
and  as  the  popularity  of  the  latter  increased, 
the  priest  gave  way  to  the  poet,  who  wrote  and 
declaimed  his  pieces  in  co-operation  with  the 
chorus.  Then,  as  the  uses  of  the  dialogue 
developed,  the  single  speaker  was  supplemented 
by  another  and  yet  a  third,  and  these  conversed 
with  one  another  and  the  chorus;  until  by  de- 
grees it  became  the  custom  for  the  three  actors 
to  play  several  parts. 

By  this  time  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  have 
29 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

a  place  in  which  to  change  their  costumes,  and 
the  skenCy  a  tent  or  hut,  was  erected.  At  first, 
this  "tyringe-house,"  as  Shakespeare  calls  it, 
may  have  been  some  distance  from  the  stage; 
but  in  time  was  placed  immediately  back  of 
the  circle  of  the  orchestra,  while  to  hide  it  from 
view  a  screen  was  erected  in  front  of  it.  This 
'proscenium y  from  ten  to  twelve  feet  high,  stretch- 
ing across  the  back  of  the  stage,  was  originally 
made  of  posts  with  skins  hung  between;  but 
gradually  assumed  the  appearance  of  the  front 
of  a  building,  sometimes  with  a  projecting 
colonnade,  from  the  roof  of  which  the  actors 
could,  if  necessary,  deliver  their  speeches.  It 
had  central  doors;  and,  since  it  did  not  extend 
across  the  entire  width  of  the  back,  there  was 
a  space  at  each  end  for  the  entrance  both  of  the 
audience  and  the  actors.  Whether  built  tem- 
porarily of  wood  or  permanently  in  stone  or 
marble,  this  simple  arrangement  of  theatron, 
(auditorium),  orchestra  (stage),  and  proscenium 
(back-scene)  served  the  purposes  of  classic 
drama,  both  tragic  and  comic. 

It  is  to  be  noticed  that  it  contributed  to  no 
illusions  either  of  place  or  time.  It  would 
happen  sometimes  that  the  action  was  supposed 

30 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

to  take  place  in  front  of  a  dwelling  or  palace,  in 
which  case  the  back-scene  would  be  appropriate ; 
but  when  the  locale  changed,  there  was  nothing 
except  the  say-so  of  the  actors  and  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  audience  to  suggest  the  change. 
Similarly,  as  the  play  was  given  in  the  open  air 
by  daylight,  the  effects  of  night  or  storm  had 
to  be  imagined.  But  these  limitations  of  illu- 
sion, as  we  call  them,  presented  no  trouble  to 
the  quick-witted  Athenians.  Both  in  Comedy 
and  Tragedy  they  looked  for  the  stimulation  of 
their  minds,  and  yielded  their  imaginations  as 
readily  to  the  promptings  of  the  play,  as  we  do, 
when  we  read  a  novel  and  mentally  follow  the 
action  of  the  story,  no  matter  where  the  author 
leads  us  or  what  the  conditions  of  the  time  or 
weather  may  be  that  he  suggests. 

Since  this  book  is  not  a  history  of  the  stage, 
it  is  suflficient  to  say  of  the  Roman  method  of 
presentation  that  it  was  a  continuation  of  that 
of  the  Greek.  There  was,  however,  one  vital 
difference.  Though  the  Roman  writers  based 
their  serious  and  comic  drama  on  the  models  of 
the  Greek  authors,  they  abandoned  the  use  of 
a  chorus.  Hence  the  orchestra,  no  longer 
needed  for  the  action,  was  given  over  to  seats 

31 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

and  became,  as  it  still  remains  with  us,  a  part  of 
the  auditorium.  The  stage,  thus  withdrawn  from 
the  floor  of  the  house,  was  raised,  occupying  a 
broad,  deep  space  in  front  of  the  proscenium. 

When,  after  the  dark  period  following  the 
fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the  drama  began  to 
reassert  itself,  its  new  beginnings  were  again 
identified  with  religious  worship. 

From  the  first  the  Mediaeval  stage  was 
raised.  Originally  it  was  the  chancel  of  the 
cathedral  or  church.  Here,  with  the  altar 
as  proscenium,  the  clergy  in  their  own  persons 
or  assisted  by  the  choir,  presented  scenes  from 
the  Holy  Bible,  for  the  edification  of  the  con- 
gregation that  thronged  the  nave.  For  example, 
on  the  Feast  Day  of  the  Holy  Innocents,  De- 
cember 28,  the  child-choristers,  dressed  in  white, 
headed  by  a  lamb,  walked  round  the  church  in 
procession,  after  which  they  were  murdered  by 
order  of  Herod.  Then  an  angel  called  them 
up  to  Heaven,  whither  they  proceeded  to  ascend, 
by  rising  up  and  walking  into  the  choir,  where 
they  sang  a  Te  Deum.  At  first  these  "Mys- 
teries," or,  as  the  name  implies,  presentations 
in  action  of  the  Bible  story,  were  given  in  Latin; 

S2 


o 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

but,  as  their  popularity  increased,  the  language 
of  the  people  was  substituted. 

By  this  time,  though  still  controlled  by  the 
clergy,  the  plays  had  ceased  to  be  a  portion  of 
the  church  service.  By  their  length  and  elabo- 
ration, as  well,  perhaps,  as  by  the  infusion  of  a 
comic  element  in  which  the  devil  played  the 
leading  part,  they  had  outgrown  the  chancel, 
and  were  performed  on  a  stage,  at  first  erected 
against  the  outside  wall  of  the  church,  which 
was  still  used  for  the  actors  to  enter  from  and 
retire  into.  The  presentation,  though  still  rude 
was  now  become  drama. 

The  oldest  example,  existing  to-day,  appears 
to  be  a  French  drama  of  the  twelfth  century, 
the  manuscript  of  which  bears  the  title,  Repre- 
sentatio  AdcB,  or  The  Representation  of  Adam. 
It  is  a  trilogy  in  three  acts,  respectively,  enact- 
ing. The  Fall  of  Adam  and  Eve;  the  Death  of 
Abely  and  the  Prophecies  of  Christ.  They  are 
written  in  the  Norman  dialect,  with  stage  direc- 
tions in  Latin,  indicating  scenery,  gestures,  and 
costumes  —  in  fact,  the  scenery  and  stage  busi- 
ness. The  introductory  directions  are  as  follows.^ 

*  I  quote  from  that  invaluable  work,  A  History  of  Dramatic  Art, 
by  Karl  Mantzius  (Lippincott,  Phila.),  to  whom  my  indebtedness 
throughout  this  and  the  following  chapter  will  appear. 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

"Paradise  shall  be  situated  in  a  rather  promi- 
nent place,  and  is  to  be  hung  all  round  with 
draperies  and  silk  curtains  to  such  a  height 
that  the  persons  who  find  themselves  in  Para- 
dise are  seen  from  their  shoulders  upward. 
There  shall  be  seen  sweet  smelling  flowers  and 
foliage;  there  shall  be  diflFerent  trees  covered 
with  fruit,  so  that  the  place  may  appear  very 
agreeable.  Then  the  Saviour  (Salvator)  shall 
appear,  robed  in  a  dalmatica.  Adam  and  Eve 
shall  place  themselves  in  front  of  him;  Adam 
dressed  in  a  red  tunic.  Eve  in  a  white  garment 
and  silk  veil;  both  rise  before  Figura  (term 
used  for  God  in  the  M.S.),  Adam  nearest,  bend- 
ing his  head.  Eve  lower  down.  Adam  shall  be 
trained  well  to  speak  at  the  right  moment,  so 
that  he  may  come  neither  too  soon  nor  too  late. 
Not  only  he  but  all  shall  be  well  practised  in 
speaking  calmly,  and  making  gestures  appro- 
priate to  the  things  they  say;  they  shall  neither 
add  nor  omit  any  syllable  of  the  metre;  all  shall 
express  themselves  in  a  distinct  manner,  and 
say  in  consecutive  order  all  that  is  to  be  said." 

Here  we  have  the  crude  beginning  of  stage 
settings  and  business,  intended  to  suggest  illu- 
sion.    For    it    is    to    be    noted   that   Northern 

34 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

drama,  from  which  our  own  is  descended,  even 
in  its  beginning  attempted  to  suggest  an  illusion 
of  place,  wherein  it  differed  radically  from  the 
Greek.  "Paradise  shall  be  situated  in  a  rather 
prominent  place."  The  place  that  became  cus- 
tomary was  the  extreme  left  of  the  stage,  as  the 
audience  views  it;  the  corresponding  place  at 
the  opposite  extremity  being  the  locality  of 
"Hell."  In  their  simple  early  form  each  was 
an  enclosure,  hung  round  with  draperies,  above 
which  the  heads  and  shoulders  of  the  occupants 
were  visible. 

Since  the  actors  waited  in  these  enclosures, 
the  technical  name  of  the  latter  in  the  Latin 
directions  was  mansiones  —  in  the  French  man- 
sions,  estatSy  lieux  —  anglicized  into  localities 
or  houses.  In  the  Adam  play  the  space  between 
these  two  localities  was  backed  by  the  church 
wall;  but  as,  the  popularity  of  these  performances 
increased,  they  were  gradually  removed  from 
the  control  of  the  clergy  and  from  connection 
with  the  church  edifice.  The  guilds  of  artizans 
produced  them,  and  the  stage  was  set  up  in  the 
market  place.  It  now  became  necessary  to 
close  in  the  stage  with  a  background,  and  this 
was    done    by    filling    in    the    space    between 

35 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

"Heaven"  and  "Hell"  with  other  enclosures 
or  localities,  representing  the  different  changes 
of  scene  occurring  in  the  drama. 

Our  illustrations,  borrowed  by  permission 
from  Mantzius'  book,  show  two  such  stages, 
respectively  of  the  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth 
Century.  In  the  earlier  one  we  find  the  locali- 
ties elevated  above  the  stage  level,  and  reached 
in  the  case  of  "Heaven"  by  a  staircase,  in  that 
of  "Hell"  by  an  entrance  through  a  dragon*s 
jaws  on  a  level  with  the  stage,  while  a  movable 
ladder  seems  to  provide  ascent  to  the  others. 
The  localities  themselves  appear  to  be  wooden 
boxes,  the  fronts  of  which  are  embellished  with 
draperies. 

Upon  the  crudeness  of  this  arrangement  the 
Valenciennes  stage  of  1547  shows  a  notable 
advance.  The  localities  present  not  only  dis- 
tinctive characteristics  but  architectural,  deco- 
rative, and  mechanical  features.  They  even 
include  a  basin  of  water,  designated  the  "Sea" 
with  a  ship  upon  it.  "Hell"  upon  the  right,  is 
still  approached  through  a  dragon's  jaws, 
grotesquely  painted  in  red,  green,  and  brown. 
Above  are  two  red  wheels  to  which  the  bodies 
of  sinners  are  bound,  while  the  top  is  guarded 

36 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

by  fire-spitting  dragons,  on  one  of  which  Lucifer 
himself  rides  astride.  From  this  place  of  tor- 
ment a  bridge  communicates  with  a  prison  in 
which  are  confined  the  unbaptized.  Then 
follow  in  succession  "The  Golden  Gate,"  "The 
House  of  the  Bishops"  and  the  "Castle."  The 
last  being  supported  by  columns,  built  on  a  high 
platform  that  extends  far  into  the  stage.  After 
this  come  "Jerusalem,"  the  "Temple,"  the  latter 
forming  a  sort  of  pendant  to  the  "Castle"; 
"Nazareth,"  approached  through  a  gate,  and 
finally  "Heaven,"  or  "Paradise."  The  lower 
part  of  this  locality  is  designated  "The  Hall." 
Above  it  is  a  circular  structure  in  the  center  of 
which  is  God  the  Father,  surrounded  by  four 
allegorical  figures  of  Peace,  Charity,  Truth,  and 
Justice.  Behind  this  group,  as  the  manuscript 
directs,  "a  golden  wheel  is  turning  incessantly," 
and  the  outermost  circle  supports  flying  angels. 
These  two  illustrations  enable  us  to  picture 
the  character  of  the  stage  on  which  the  Me- 
diaeval dramas  were  performed;  namely,  the 
"Mysteries,"  or  presentation  in  action  of  the 
Bible  story  and  the  lives  of  the  Saints;  "Passion 
Plays,"  enacting  the  sufferings  of  Christ; 
"Miracle  Plays,"  in  which  the  tangle  of  the  plot 

37 


The  xA.ppreciation  of  the  Drama 

was  dissolved  by  the  intervention  of  the  Virgin; 
and  the  *'MoraHties'*  in  which  the  virtues  and 
vices  were  allegorically  characterized.  In  the 
recent  revival  of  the  fifteenth  century  Morality, 
Everyman,  we  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
"localities"  in  actual  operation.  The  back  of 
the  stage,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  enclosed 
with  a  wall  in  which  were  openings,  covered 
at  the  commencement  of  the  play  with  curtains. 
In  the  center,  raised  high  above  the  stage  level 
and  surmounted  by  a  canopy,  or  baldacchino, 
was  the  tomb,  somewhat  suggesting  the  appear- 
ance of  a  high  altar,  and  offering  opportunities 
for  grouping  that  recalled  the  dignified  com- 
position of  a  Flemish  altarpiece.  While  the 
main  action  of  the  play  was  performed  on  the 
front  part  of  the  stage,  Everyman  at  times 
approached  one  of  the  openings,  when  the  cur- 
tain was  drawn  back,  revealing  one  of  the 
characters  —  Riches,  Good-Deeds  —  with  whom 
the  dialogue  was  carried  on.  When  this  par- 
ticular scene  was  finished  the  curtains  were  re- 
drawn. If,  as  no  doubt  is  the  case,  there  exists 
authority  for  the  use  of  the  curtain,  it  shows  the 
intermediate  step  between  the  old  one  of  the 
actors  taking  their  places  in  their  several  locali- 

38 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

ties  at  the  start  of  the  play  and  remaining 
throughout  in  full  view  of  the  audience,  and 
the  later  development  of  providing  buildings 
with  doorways  to  screen  the  performers,  until 
their  presence  was  demanded  by  the  action. 

So  numerous  were  the  people  eager  to  see  the 
Valenciennes  Passion  Play,  that  its  perform- 
ances were  continued  for  twenty-five  days. 
To  obviate  the  expenses  and  interruption  of 
business  involved  in  these  prolonged  events, 
and  yet  to  accommodate  the  crowd,  the  single 
stage  with  its  variety  of  localities  was  some- 
times replaced  by  a  number  of  separate  platforms 
or  floats  on  wheels.  Each  of  these,  correspond- 
ing to  a  single  locality,  had  its  own  stage  settings 
and  company  of  actors,  who  performed  some 
single  scene  of  the  drama.  The  city  was  marked 
off  into  stations,  to  each  of  which  in  rotation 
every  float  proceeded.  The  scene  concluded, 
the  float  would  be  drawn  to  the  next  station, 
and  its  place  taken  by  the  following  one,  and 
so  on.  The  whole  play  by  this  means,  was 
served  up,  as  it  were,  in  a  succession  of  courses 
to  the  whole  community,  who  gathered  in  the 
streets  and  filled  the  adjoining  windows. 

But,  for  our  present  purpose,  the  chief  point 
39 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

of  interest  to  be  deduced  from  a  study  of  the 
Mediaeval  stage-arrangements  is  the  hint  it 
gives  of  the  need  and  taste  of  the  audience. 
They  were  unable,  like  the  Athenians,  to  take 
anything  for  granted  or  to  supplement  the 
action  of  the  play  with  their  own  imaginations. 
With  them,  seeing  was  believing.  They  de- 
manded to  have  the  change  of  scene  visualized; 
crudely  enough  to  our  eyes,  but  still  emphati- 
cally. Further,  their  appetite  increased  for 
spectacular  and  realistic  effects,  for  having  the 
tortures  of  the  saints,  the  torment  of  the  damned, 
and  the  rewards  of  the  blest,  represented  actu- 
ally before  their  eyes.  To  satisfy  this  the 
engineer  and  mechanician  were  as  essential  as 
the  playwright  and  the  actor.  In  time  they 
became  more  so.  The  tendency  was  con- 
tinually towards  swamping  the  actual  drama  in 
an  elaboration  of  spectacular  and  mechanical 
contrivances.  Indeed,  those  forefathers  of  ours 
in  the  matter  of  taste  were  very  like  ourselves. 

>|e  4(  4:  H(  ^  4:  4s 

So  long  as  these  performances  were  pro- 
moted by  the  guilds  and  backed  by  the  resources 
of  a  city,  vying  in  magnificence  and  patronage 
with  some  rival  city,  or  by  an  **  angel,"  in  the 

40 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

person  of  some  rich  merchant  or  nobleman, 
who  may  or  may  not  have  had  ulterior  political 
motives,  the  enormous  expense  that  they  en- 
tailed was  no  bar  to  their  production.  But 
such  expenditure  became  impossible  when  the 
drama  passed  from  the  hands  of  amateurs  into 
those  of  professionals. 

This  was  the  change  that  marked  the  period 
of  the  Renaissance.  There  had  been  profes- 
sional actors  before  the  sixteenth  century;  men 
and  even  women  who,  beginning  as  amateurs 
in  their  own  city,  attained  such  celebrity  that 
other  cities  were  willing  to  pay  for  their  occa- 
sional services.  But  in  England  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan time  professional  actors  were  sufficiently 
numerous  and  distinct  as  a  class  to  form  them- 
selves into  companies.  Sometimes  a  nobleman 
would  include  such  a  company  in  his  retinue, 
and  they  would  be  known  as  "My  Lord  So- 
and-So's  servants."  Gradually,  however,  the 
patronage  became  more  nominal.  As  the  actors 
had  no  political  status  except  that  of  "rogues 
and  vagabonds,'*  it  was  necessary  for  them  to 
secure  immunity  from  arrest  and  interference 
by  attaching  themselves  to  some  person  in 
authority.     They  were  still   styled   "servants," 

41 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

as  in  the  case  of  Shakespeare's  own  company, 
"The  Earl  of  Leicester's  Servants,"  but  they 
were  dependent  for  a  livelihood  on  the  receipts 
at  the  box-office. 

By  this  time,  however,  the  performances 
were  removed  from  the  open  air  into  buildings, 
roofed  over  at  least  for  the  audience.  Some- 
times the  stage  was  set  up  in  a  hall;  but  in 
Elizabethan  England  theaters  began  to  appear, 
erected,  however,  not  as  in  former  times  by  a 
municipality,  but  by  a  private  individual,  as  a 
business  investment,  conducted  on  the  ordinary 
principle  of  supply  and  demand.  Lavish  ex- 
penditure was  out  of  the  question.  The  struc- 
ture of  the  theater  and  its  stage  equipments  had 
to  conform  to  the  necessities  of  making  the 
drama  pay. 

The  earliest  theater  in  London  was  erected 
by  the  actor  and  master-carpenter,  James 
Burbage,  father  of  Richard  Burbage,  the  famous 
tragedian  of  Shakespeare's  company.  He  called 
it  "The  Theater."  It  was  constructed  of  wood, 
as  were  probably  all  the  other  theaters  that 
speedily  grew  up:  "The  Curtain,"  "The  Rose," 
"The  Hope,"  "The  Globe,"  "The  Swan." 
The  exterior  of  all  of  these,  it  is  supposed,  cor- 

42 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

responded  to  a  print  of  The  Globe  Theater,  still 
in  existence,  which  shows  an  octagonal  building 
running  up  like  a  tower,  with  windows  in  the 
upper  stories,  and  a  roof  round  the  ring  of  the 
walls,  leaving  the  center  open  to  the  sky.  Simi- 
larly, a  drawing  of  "The  Swan,"  made  by  a 
Dutch  traveler,  Johan  De  Witt,  probably  in 
1596,  is  assumed  to  be  the  type  of  interior, 
represented  in  all  the  theaters  of  the  period. 
It  shows  an  arena  or  *'pit"  without  seats, 
where  the  "groundlings"  disported  themselves, 
and  three  surrounding  galleries,  the  topmost  of 
which  is  roofed  over.  Above  these  projects  a 
tower  from  which  the  trumpeter  announced 
that  the  performance  was  about  to  begin.  The 
upper  story  of  this  tower  may  have  been  used 
as  a  storeroom  for  costumes  and  properties; 
the  lower  one  was  certainly  the  dressing-room 
of  the  actors,  the  "tyringe  house,"  or,  as  in  the 
Greek  theater,  the  "skene."  From  this  two 
doors  lead  on  to  the  stage,  and  above  them  is  a 
wide  window,  that  would  serve  the  purpose  of 
the  arcade  roof  in  the  Greek  theater.  From 
this,  when  the  action  demanded  it,  the  actors 
could  converse  with  those  below;  Juliet,  for 
example,  with  Romeo. 

43 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Projecting  above  this  window,  and  extending 
to  some  distance  down  the  stage,  was  a  roof 
supported  on  two  columns.  This  might,  no 
doubt,  afford  shelter  to  the  actors  in  rainy 
weather;  but  its  practicability  for  the  business 
of  the  action  was  of  more  importance.  It  was 
hung  round  on  three  sides  with  curtains. 
Through  these  Hamlet  stabbed  Polonius;  or, 
when  the  front  ones  were  drawn  back,  the  play 
scene  would  be  revealed;  while  all  of  them 
could  be  drawn,  if  the  action  demanded  the  full 
stage.  The  stage  itself,  as  in  the  Greek  theater, 
was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  spectators. 
It  was  from  the  space  beneath  it  that  the  Ghost 
may  have  cried  "Swear,'*  for  Hamlet  says: 
"You  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellarage." 

Though  there  is  no  record  of  Shakespeare's 
company  acting  in  "The  Swan,"  his  own  play- 
house, "The  Globe,"  was  much  such  a  struc- 
ture; so  that  in  this  print  one  sees  the  actual 
conditions  under  which  his  tragedies  and  come- 
dies were  produced.  Again,  as  in  the  Greek 
times,  the  performance  was  by  daylight  and  no 
illusion  of  place  or  time  was  attempted.  The 
only  "  property "  shown  in  the  drawing  is  a 
bench,  which  probably  was  brought  on  when 

44 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

needed  and  then  removed.  Similarly,  a  few  other 
properties,  rocks  and  so  forth,  may  have  been 
introduced  to  help  the  action;  but,  if  so,  they 
must  have  been  constructed  with  a  view  to  being 
seen  from  all  sides.  They  were  of  a  plastic 
character,  like  the  stage  settings  and  the  move- 
ments of  the  actors.  Thus  the  period  enriched 
with  the  noblest  drama  since  the  age  of  Pericles 
is  marked  by  a  return  to  the  stage  simplicity 
of  Classic  times;  and  not  even  to  the  simple 
dignity  of  the  Greek  permanent  theater,  but  to 
the  still  simpler  form  that  characterized  the 
temporary  wooden  fixtures  in  which  the  dramas 
of  iEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides  were 
performed.  When  further  we  recall  the  fact, 
that  the  conditions  under  which  Moliere  laid 
the  foundations  of  modern  comedy  were  nearly 
as  simple  as  those  that  surround  the  tragedies 
and  comedies  of  Shakespeare,  and  that  Ibsen's 
dramas  which  have  had  the  most  potent  in- 
fluence in  modern  times  demand  but  the  sim- 
plest settings,  we  realize  how  independent  the 
drama  at  its  best  is  of  the  accidents  of  material 
surroundings. 

I  do  not  hope  to  dissuade  any  reader  from 
the  enjoyment  of  a  beautiful  mis-en-scene.    I 

45 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

would  not  try  to  do  so,  for  I  myself  enjoy  it; 
believing  that  there  is  a  place  on  the  stage  for 
the  pomp  and  grandeur  of  the  spectacular. 
Yet  the  fact  remains,  and  it  should  regulate  the 
tenor  of  this  book,  that  the  spectacular  is  not 
essential  to  the  drama  in  its  highest  forms.  It 
appeals  to  something  in  ourselves  that  is  below 
the  highest  possibilities  of  appreciation :  namely, 
those  which  are  concerned  with  our  intellectual 
and  spiritual  consciousness. 

In  conclusion,  however,  to  be  fair  to  our  own 
generation,  I  will  quote  from  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
who  cannot  be  accused  of  lack  of  intellect  or 
imagination.  Yet  he  derides  the  simple  arrange- 
ments of  the  Elizabethan  stage  in  the  following 
words:  — 

"Where  you  shall  have  Asia  on  the  one  side 
and  Afric  of  the  other,  and  so  many  other  under 
kingdoms,  that  the  player,  when  he  cometh  in, 
must  ever  begin  with  telling  where  he  is  (or  else 
the  tale  will  not  be  conceived).  Now  ye  shall 
have  three  ladies  walk  to  gather  flowers,  and 
then  we  must  believe  the  stage  to  be  a  garden. 
By  and  by  we  hear  news  of  shipwreck  in  the 
same  place,  and  then  we  are  to  blame  if  we 
accept  it  not  for  a  rock.     Upon  the  back  of  that 

46 


The  Stage  —  Plastic 

comes  out  a  hideous  monster,  with  fire  and 
smoke,  and  then  the  miserable  beholders  are 
bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave.  While,  in  the 
meantime,  two  armies  fly  in,  represented  with 
four  swords  and  bucklers,  and  then  what  hard 
heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field." 

Perhaps,  therefore,  the  simplicity  of  the  stage 
settings  was  the  result,  not  so  much  of  superior 
intelligence  on  the  part  of  the  audience,  as  of 
inferior  resources  on  the  part  of  the  manage- 
ment. 


47 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   STAGE  —  PICTORIAL 

IN  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  when 
the  Valenciennes  stage,  that  we  have  already 
noticed,  represented  the  elaborate  form  of  the 
Mediaeval  Passion  Play,  the  Italians  were  at- 
tempting to  revive  the  dignity  of  the  ancient 
Roman  theater.  Their  effort  was,  of  course, 
a  phase  of  the  revival  of  classic  literature  that 
had  possessed  the  Italian  imagination  of  the 
Renaissance.  It  was  in  the  courts  of  the 
nobles  that  the  new  culture  flourished,  and  here 
were  given  plays  founded  upon  the  Classic 
models.  At  first  the  stage  was  simply  a  plat- 
form, backed  with  draperies  which  were  fre- 
quently decorated  by  celebrated  artists.  Thus, 
Raphael  painted  the  curtains  for  a  performance 
of  the  Suppositi  by  Ariosto,  and  the  painted 
draperies  by  Mantegna,  which  are  now  among 
the  treasures  of  Hampton  Court,  were  originally 
used  in  a  performance  at  the  ducal  court  of 
Gonzagha,  in  Mantua. 

48 


An   Early  English   Mystery  Play'. 
Afier  an  engraving  from  Sharp's  "  Coventry  Mysteries. 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

Later,  when  actual  theaters  came  to  be 
erected,  they  were  of  a  temporary  character. 
One,  however,  was  of  such  magnificence  that 
it  was  allowed  to  remain.  This  was  the  Olym- 
pian Theater  in  Vicenza,  built  in  1565,  by  the 
famous  architect,  Palladio.  The  illustration 
shows  a  projecting,  semicircular  stage,  backed 
by  a  lofty  fa9ade.  To  this  extent  the  design 
approximates  the  model  of  the  Roman  theater. 
But  the  fa9ade  is  pierced  with  arches,  beyond 
which  appear  three  streets,  flanked  by  build- 
ings, which  were  not  painted  on  the  flat,  but 
actually  built  in  relief,  diminishing  in  size  to 
produce  a  sense  of  perspective,  so  that  the 
house,  furthest  removed,  did  not  exceed  two  feet. 
The  illusion  of  this  would  have  been  destroyed, 
if  the  actors  had  placed  themselves  in  close 
contact  with  the  small  buildings,  so  that  clearly 
the  entrances  and  exits  were  made  from  the 
part  of  the  streets  farthest  down  the  stage. 
A  study  of  the  illustration  will  show  how  in- 
geniously the  buildings  are  detached  and  the 
main  streets  crossed  by  narrower  ones  to  pro- 
vide a  variety  of  entrances,  and  how  effectively 
the  rake  of  the  rows  of  buildings  masks  the 
background. 

49 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

This  festival  theater  was,  of  course,  too  elabo- 
rate and  expensive  for  professional  purposes, 
yet  its  principles  were  adopted  with  modifica- 
tion. The  pierced  arches,  and  the  fact  that  on 
Palladio's  stage  some  of  the  action  was  per- 
formed behind  the  arches,  certainly  suggested 
putting  the  whole  of  the  action  behind  a  pro- 
scenium frame.  In  two  prints  of  the  period 
which  have  been  preserved,  this  arrangement 
is  shown.  The  stage  has  become  a  large  box, 
with  one  side  open  to  the  audience,  and  within 
the  box  the  entire  action  is  represented.  One 
of  these,  intended  for  comedy,  shows  a  street 
scene,  "boxed  in'*  with  practicable  buildings,  so 
that  entrances  and  exits  could  be  made  through 
the  doors,  as  well  as  by  the  side  alleys.  The 
other,  intended  probably  for  tragedies,  exhibits 
a  public  place,  similarly  surrounded  with  prac- 
ticable structures,  which,  however,  are  of  im- 
posing design.  In  this  case  it  is  noticeable  that 
the  drawing  actually  indicates  the  pilasters  of 
the  proscenium  arch. 

By  this  time  both  the  practicability  and 
desirability  of  a  curtain,  separating  the  stage 
from  the  audience,  had  been  established.  At 
first,  it  may  have  been  customary  to  keep  the 

50 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

curtain  raised  until  the  finish  of  the  play,  for 
the  Italian  practice  was  to  have  one  charac- 
teristic setting  for  the  entire  piece.  "Three 
decorations,"  writes  the  artist  Serlio  in  1545, 
are  suflScient  for  all  kinds  of  plays.  "The  first, 
which  is  intended  for  a  comedy  or  farce,  repre- 
sents a  tolerably  narrow  and  deep  street,  with 
numerous  shops  with  signs,  and  houses,  all  of 
which  allows  of  multiplying  the  episodes  during 
the  action  of  the  play.  The  second,  intended 
for  tragedy,  is  a  public  place  in  a  severe  style, 
like  the  Piazzo  della  Signoria  in  Florence. 
Finally,  for  idylls,  mythological  plays,  and 
ballets,  a  sylvan  decoration.  The  two  first 
mentioned  are  built  of  light  material,  timber- 
work  covered  with  canvas;  the  last,  simply 
painted." 

In  France,  whither  the  Italian  method  was 
the  first  to  travel,  there  had  been  a  form  of  stage 
setting  that  grew  out  of  the  arrangement  of 
localities,  such  as  we  have  seen  in  the  Valen- 
ciennes play.  Known  as  le  decor  simuUane,  it 
represented  another  step  in  the  direction  of 
illusion.  With  the  same  idea  of  providing  for 
change  of  scenes  during  the  action  of  the  piece, 
it  varied  the  architectural  structures  with  others 

51 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

more  nearly  approaching  the  reahstic  sugges- 
tion. Thus  Leon  Mahelot,  a  scene-painter  and 
machinist,  at  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  during 
the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  has 
left  a  record  of  le  decor  simultane^  as  arranged 
for  a  play  called  Agarite,  by  Durval.  For  this, 
five  separate  decorations  were  set  simultaneously, 
remaining  in  view  during  the  whole  perform- 
ance. Nearest  to  the  audience,  on  the  right, 
was  a  castle,  or  rather,  a  fragment  of  a  wall 
with  a  moat  and  vault;  opposite,  on  the  left, 
a  part  of  a  house,  from  which  through  a  large 
window  was  a  view  into  a  painter's  studio. 
Higher  up  stage,  on  this  side  was  a  garden, 
opposite  to  which  appeared  a  church  wall, 
some  tombs  and  a  big  bell.  The  background 
showed  the  interior  of  a  room  with  a  magnifi- 
cent bed. 

This  sounds  like  a  strange  jumble  of  effects, 
but  some  kind  of  harmony  was  given  to  them 
by  the  skill  of  the  scene  painter.  It  was  an 
arrangement  that,  as  Mantzius  says,  was  much 
nearer  to  our  modern  notions  than  the  Me- 
diaeval platform-stage.  But  the  "Simultaneous 
Decoration"  passed  away  when  the  French 
adopted  the  Italian  example.     In  its  place  came 

52 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

the  use  of  a  few  "stock'*  scenes:  "a  street,"  **a 
public  place,"  or  *'a  classical  colonnade,"  **a 
forest,"  and  "an  interior."  The  latter  had 
five  doors,  symmetrically  placed;  one  in  the 
background,  and  at  the  sides  two  "upper 
entrances"  and  two  "lower  entrances."  It 
was  for  an  interior  of  this  sort  that  several  of 
Moliere's  comedies,  TartuJJe,  for  example,  Le 
Misanthrope,  and  L'Avare,  were  written  and 
are  so  completely  adapted,  that  to  this  day  they 
cannot  be  acted  in  any  other  kind  of  scene. 

From  the  practice  of  using  one  of  these 
stock  "sets"  during  the  whole  play,  it  was 
but  a  step  to  the  use  of  several  for  differ- 
ent scenes;  and  from  this  to  the  adoption  of 
a  great  variety  of  specially  prepared  settings 
was  but  a  question  of  time.  It  was  an  inevitable 
concession  to  the  continued  demand  of  the 
audience  for  more  and  more  elaboration.  This 
included,  as  in  Mediaeval  days,  a  demand  upon 
the  machinist  quite  as  much  as  on  the  scene 
painter  and  property  man.  And  the  stage 
tricks  that  the  three  developed  had  by  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  anticipated 
the  most  complicated  effects  of  the  modern 
stage.     There  was,  perhaps,  only  one  particu- 

53 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

lar  in  which  they  fell  short  of  ours  —  namely, 
in  the  lighting. 

As  long  as  the  stage  was  in  the  open  air  and 
the  performances  by  daylight,  the  lighting  pre- 
sented no  problem.  With  the  removal,  how- 
ever, of  the  stage  indoors,  and  the  demand  of 
fashion  for  evening  performances,  it  became  a 
question  that  exercised  both  the  ingenuity  and 
the  pockets  of  the  managers.  The  use  of  wax 
candles  in  chandeliers,  hanging  from  the  ceil- 
ing or  in  brackets,  arranged  at  the  sides  of  the 
stage,  was  all  very  well  for  the  rich  in  their 
private  entertainments.  But  for  the  profes- 
sional manager,  except  on  ceremonial  occasions, 
the  expense  was  prohibitive.  He  was  forced 
to  rely  on  oil  lamps  and,  in  the  smaller  theaters, 
on  tallow  candles.  In  England  the  footlights 
are  still  called  "the  floats";  a  survival  of  the 
time  when  a  tin-lined  trench  stretched  across 
the  front  of  the  stage,  filled  with  oil,  on  which 
floated  metal  discs  through  which  the  wicks  were 
drawn.  A  man  was  on  duty  to  snuff  these, 
pull  them  further  through,  and  also  to  stand 
by  with  a  stick  that  had  a  sponge  on  the  end 
of  it  soaked  in  water,  against  emergency  of  fire. 

Such  a  condition  of  lighting  represents  in  our 
54 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

imagination  a  strange  contrast  to  the  brilliant 
possibilities  that  came  in  with  the  use  of  gas 
and  have  been  developed  by  the  substitution  of 
electricity. 

But,  while  we  congratulate  ourselves  on  the 
superior  lighting  possibilities  of  the  modem 
stage,  do  not  let  us  be  blind  to  the  inadequate 
way  in  which  they  are  utilized.  To-day,  one 
man  standing  at  a  switchboard  can  absolutely 
control  the  whole  of  the  lighting  effects;  redu- 
cing or  increasing  the  quantity  of  the  light, 
changing  its  quality  and  color,  instantaneously 
or  by  degrees.  There  is  probably  no  conceiv- 
able effect  that  is  not  attainable.  Yet,  what  do 
we  get.?  As  a  general  rule  "lights  up" — a 
blare  of  illumination.  And  why  ?  Because  we, 
the  audience,  are  supposed  to  like  it;  and  I  fear 
we  do.  We  are  for  the  most  part  like  unheed- 
ing children,  attracted  most  by  what  is  brightest. 
But  childlike,  we  are  also  fond  of  change,  so 
we  are  treated  to  sunrises  and  sunsets;  or  at 
least  in  our  heedlessness  we  accept  them  for 
such;  rapid-transit  changes  in  the  color  of  the 
light,  that  dapple  the  canvas  scenery  with  purple, 
green,  and  amber  patches  till  the  whole  thing 
suggests   a   Gargantuan   Neapolitan   ice-cream. 

55 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Or  our  sense  of  fitness,  if  we  have  any,  is 
affronted  by  an  effect  so  ridiculously  crude  as 
one  that  I  recall  in  a  recent  elaborate  produc- 
tion of  Peer  Gynt.  The  scene  was  composed 
of  a  series  of  cut-cloths  representing  trees  and 
foliage,  the  whole  showing  the  vista  of  a  wood. 
It  was  flooded  with  bright  yellow  light,  except 
in  the  front  plane  where  the  *'  star  "  actor  stood, 
bathed  in  the  white  calcium  light.  Notwith- 
standing the  resources  at  his  disposal  to  create 
an  illusion  of  nature,  he  permitted  two  different 
qualities  of  light  to  appear  in  the  same  scene. 

In  another  play  lately,  as  Don  Quixote  rode 
upon  the  scene,  his  spear  cast  its  shadow  on  a 
distant  snow  mountain.  These  are  but  samples 
of  the  innumerable  incongruities  and  falsities 
of  effect  that  the  ignorance  or  carelessness  of 
managers  foists  upon  an  ignorant  and  careless 
public.  Yet  what  is  the  very  simple  truth  of 
the  whole  matter.?  We  aim  at  illusion  and  the 
stage  setting  has  become  a  picture.  Therefore 
it  must  be  governed  by  pictorial  considerations. 

Now  the  painter  of  an  easel  picture,  if  he  is 
seeking  an  illusion  of  nature,  makes  particular 
study  of  the  effects  of  natural  light.  He  does 
so  for  two  reasons :  firstly,  to  increase  the  illusion 

56 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

of  nature  in  the  picture;  secondly,  to  infuse  it 
with  sentiment. 

As  to  the  first  point,  the  natural  effect. 
Everything  in  nature  is  enveloped  in  lighted 
atmosphere,  even  the  shadows  holding  a  cer- 
tain quantity  of  light.  The  effect  is  to  soften 
the  outlines  of  trees  and  objects,  to  merge  their 
details  into  masses,  and,  as  they  recede  from  the 
eye,  to  make  them  greyer  and  more  indistinct 
because  of  the  intervening  layers  of  atmosphere. 
We  can  see  this  effect  of  "aerial  perspective" 
whenever  we  look  down  the  street,  or  across  the 
fields.  How  often  do  we  see  it  when  we  look 
across  the  footlights  ? 

If  we  study  nature  a  little,  we  shall  find  that 
the  lighted  atmosphere  is  the  source  of  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  effects.  Why  then  do 
we  not  see  it  reproduced  on  the  stage  ?  I  am 
aware  that  the  scene  painter  has  provided  for 
this  atmospheric  suggestion  in  the  painting  of 
the  back-cloth ;  but  why  is  the  effect  of  the  latter 
not  blended  with  the  foreground  that  all  the 
gradations  may  be  maintained  ?  and  why  does 
the  glaring  light  contradict,  as  it  so  often  does, 
the  kind  of  light  that  the  artist  has  represented 
on  his  back-cloth.^     For  one   of   two  reasons: 

57 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

either  he  does  not  trouble  himself  about  the  way 
in  which  his  scenery  is  lighted;  or,  more  gener- 
ally, because  he  is  not  allowed  to  have  his  say, 
and  any  attempt  on  his  part  to  complete  his 
artistic  intention  is  shut  off  by  a  manager 
who  "cares  for  none  of  these  things,*'  because 
he  knows  nothing  about  them.  He  could  not 
tell  a  bad  easel  picture  from  a  good  one,  so  what 
shall  he  know  about  stage  pictures? 

And  here  is  another  point.  The  real  picture- 
artist  is  concerned  not  only  with  the  quantity, 
but  also  with  the  quality  of  the  light.  He  knows, 
as  we  ourselves  do,  when  we  come  to  think  of  it, 
that  the  quality  of  the  light  varies,  according  to 
the  locality,  whether  it  is  north  or  south,  or  in 
the  plains,  valleys,  mountains,  also  according 
to  the  season  of  the  year  and  the  time  of  day. 
In  each  case  there  will  be  some  special  quality 
of  light;  and  it  will  be  by  the  faithful  rendering 
of  its  appearance  that  he  will  create  the  illusion 
in  his  picture.  For  the  modern  picture-painter 
is  not  satisfied  with  generalities.  The  illusion 
he  tries  for  is  one  of  intimate  truth  to  nature, 
compared  with  which  the  happy-go-lucky  at- 
tempts at  stage  illusion  are  mere  child's  play. 

But  why,  it  may  be  asked,  should  stage  illu- 
58 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

sion  aim  at  a  corresponding  intimacy  of  natural 
effect?  Because,  and  here  we  have  the  very 
kernel  of  the  whole  matter,  such  intimacy  is  a 
source  —  the  chief  source  —  of  emotional  or 
spiritual  suggestion.  For  the  chief  note  of  the 
modern  painter  is  expression.  The  painter  is 
not  satisfied  merely  to  represent  appearances, 
he  wishes  to  express  the  feeling  with  which  the 
appearances  inspire  him;  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  to 
interpret  the  appearances  so  that  they  shall 
express  his  own  mood.  And  a  response  to  that 
mood,  or  sometimes  an  incentive  to  it,  he  finds  in 
what  he  calls  the  moods  of  nature:  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  changes  of  expression  which  pass 
over  the  face  of  nature,  according  to  the  quantity 
or  quality  of  the  lighted  atmosphere.  Thus  in 
pictures,  both  of  outdoor  and  indoor  scenes,  he 
relies  upon  the  rendering  of  light  to  arouse  in  us, 
when  we  look  at  his  picture,  the  kind  of  feeling 
that  inspired  him  to  paint  it. 

When,  for  example,  Israels,  the  Dutch  artist, 
paints  a  picture  of  a  fisherman,  seated  in  the 
desolation  of  his  grief  beside  the  dead  body  of 
his  wife,  how  does  he  stir  our  emotion  ?  Partly, 
it  is  true,  by  the  figures.  He  depicts  an  expres- 
sion of  hopeless  loneliness  on  the  man's  face  and 

59 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

in  the  stolid  droop  of  his  figure,  and  contrasts 
with  these  the  straight,  thin  form  beneath  the 
sheet  and  the  white,  pinched,  yet  peaceful  face 
upon  the  pillow.  But  the  artist  has  done  much 
more.  He  also  has  invested  the  figures  with  an 
atmosphere  that  helps  to  interpret  the  sentiment 
of  the  subject.  He  has  rendered  the  light,  as  it 
struggles  in  through  the  little  window,  the  cold 
white  light  of  early  morning.  It  glances  on 
the  faces  and  figures  and  illuminates  portions 
of  the  room,  while  other  parts  are  dim  with 
silvery  shadows.  The  light  stirs  in  our  imagi- 
nation a  feeling  of  chill  and  hardness,  mingled 
with  a  certain  tenderness,  and  a  suggestion  of 
the  mystery  that  surrounds  life  and  death. 
Had  the  artist  omitted  this  envelope  of  lighted 
atmosphere  around  the  figures,  his  picture  would 
have  lost  more  than  half  its  expression  and 
power  to  move  us. 

Is  not  the  applicability  of  this  to  the  stage 
picture  quite  clear.?  It  is  not  enough  that  the 
latter  should  merely  indicate  the  locality,  it 
should  also  contribute  to  the  locality  its  proper 
atmosphere  of  expression.  There  should  be  a 
unity  of  feeling  between  the  characters  and 
their  surroundings,  otherwise  the  picture  is  not 

60 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

complete.  Yet  it  is  the  rarest  thing  to  see  this 
harmony  attained,  or  even  tried  for,  in  a  stage 
picture.  Nor  would  it  necessarily  involve  a 
great  expenditure.  On  the  contrary,  what  is 
needed  is  not  lavish  outlay  of  money,  but 
artistic  knowledge  and  feeling;  such,  for  ex- 
ample, as  was  shown  in  a  performance  of  "The 
Vikings,"  given  by  the  New  York  Academy  of 
Dramatic  Arts  under  the  direction  of  Mr. 
Franklin  Sargent.  The  scene  was  simple  —  a 
pile  of  cliffs  on  the  left,  a  fishing  hut  on  the 
right,  and  between  them  a  view  of  ocean  and 
sky.  The  effectiveness  was  due  mainly  to  the 
lighting,  which  suggested  a  gloomy,  lowering 
atmosphere,  charged  with  the  possibilities  of 
tempest.  Enveloped  in  this,  the  scene  took  on 
a  crude  appearance,  as  though  it  were  part,  as 
indeed  it  was,  of  an  untamed,  primitive  world, 
foreboding  the  clash  of  rude  passions  that  were 
to  wake  its  empty,  silent  echoes.  What  was 
the  result  ?  Though  the  actors  were  young  and 
inexperienced  students,  their  efforts  were  re- 
inforced by  the  atmosphere  of  expression  that 
enveloped  them;  and  the  performance  was 
extraordinarily  impressive. 

There  was  another  feature  of  this  stage  set- 
61 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ting  that  added  to  the  impressiveness.  As  I 
have  said,  the  foreground  contained  only  a 
sandy  stretch,  with  cliffs  on  one  side  and  a  hut 
on  the  other.  Both  hut  and  cliffs  were  built 
up  in  actual  relief;  the  one  could  be  entered, 
the  other  climbed  over  by  an  ascending  path 
that  led  up  to  a  considerable  height.  This 
arrangement  illustrated  the  effectiveness  of  sim- 
plicity and  of  plastic  scenery:  two  subjects 
which  in  connection  with  atmospheric  effect 
are  occupying  the  attention  of  artistic  managers 
to-day.  So  far  as  the  substitution  of  plastic 
scenery  in  relief  for  the  ordinary  flat-painted 
scene  is  concerned,  it  is  a  return  to  what  was  the 
practice,  as  we  have  seen,  of  the  Italians,  when 
they  first  set  their  stage  picture  behind  a  frame. 
That  the  most  artistic  nation  of  the  modern 
world,  at  its  highest  period  of  artistic  activity, 
should  have  made  the  scenery  plastic,  is  of  itself 
an  argument  in  favor  of  the  practice.  And  a 
little  reflection,  I  believe,  will  prove  that  the 
reason  which  prompted  it  equally  holds  good 
to-day.  For  the  point  of  start  is  that,  though 
the  stage  scene  has  approximated  since  1545 
to  a  picture,  it  must  differ  in  a  very  vital  particu- 
lar.    A  picture  only  suggests  the  third  dimen- 

62 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

sion  of  depth,  the  stage  setting  actually  includes 
it.  It  therefore  demands  that,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, the  detailed  effects  of  depth  should  be 
actually  real.  In  a  picture  the  artist  can  treat 
the  figures  and  the  surroundings  in  a  similar 
spirit  of  make-believe;  he  can  adjust  both  to 
the  illusion  of  depth.  But  on  the  stage  the 
figures  themselves  necessarily  have  actual  depth ; 
wherever  they  stand,  they  are  recognized  to  be 
real.  The  scenery,  then,  must  be  forced  up, 
as  far  as  practicable,  to  a  corresponding  degree 
of  reality;  otherwise  there  will  not  be  a  unity  of 
feeling  between  them  and  their  surroundings. 
And  the  latter,  for  this  purpose,  must  as  far  as 
possible  be  plastic. 

That  is  the  simple  argument;  and  its  reason- 
ableness can  be  illustrated  in  almost  any  ordi- 
nary modern  production.  The  curtain  goes  up, 
for  example,  on  a  woodland  scene,  and  for  a 
moment  there  is  a  fair  suggestion  of  natural 
illusion.  But  no  sooner  has  an  actor  come  on 
the  scene,  than  the  illusion  is  lessened.  His 
form  stands  out  from  its  surroundings  with  an 
assurance  of  bulk  that  the  flat-painted  scene 
cannot  live  up  to.  Alongside  of  his  reality, 
the  latter,  to  a  careful  eye,  suggests  the  make- 

63 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

believe  that  it  is.  But  let  the  actor  come  for- 
ward to  where  a  "practicable"  tree-trunk  stands, 
with  a  bench  around  it,  and  immediately,  if  we 
confine  our  vision  to  the  figure  and  the  tree  and 
the  bench,  they  are  all  united  in  a  common 
suggestion  of  reality. 

Two  of  the  best  out-of-door  effects  recently 
produced  on  our  professional  stage  were  the 
second  act  of  The  Great  Divide,  and  the  single 
scene  of  Sappho  and  Phaon.  And  the  reason 
of  their  superiority  was,  to  a  very  large  extent, 
that  reliance  had  been  placed  on  plastic  scenery. 
The  former  represented  a  rocky  eminence  with 
a  shanty  to  one  side.  All  the  foreground  was 
modeled  in  actual  relief,  leaving  only  the  distant 
view  of  the  sky  and  plain  to  be  suggested  by  a 
back-cloth.  Since  the  latter  was  at  a  distance, 
where  the  performers  never  came  into  direct 
and  close  contact  with  it,  the  illusion  of  reality 
was  unimpaired.  The  setting  of  Sappho  and 
Phaon  was  in  itself  far  more  lovely;  but  that  is 
another  matter.  Its  effectiveness  was  secured 
by  the  temple  front  on  the  right  being  constructed 
of  columns  and  pediments  in  actual  relief,  set 
upon  a  stylobate  or  platform,  approached  by 
steps,  which  were  built  into  a  rocky  eminence 

64 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

that  also  was  in  actual  relief.  So  were  the  altar, 
in  the  center  of  the  background,  and  the  statues 
and  the  shrubs  and  the  tree  stems  among  which 
they  stood;  the  distance  only,  as  in  the  previous 
case,  being  suggested  on  the  flat.  Not  only  was 
the  empty  scene  as  beautiful  as  could  be  desired ; 
but,  when  the  actors  came  on,  there  was  nowhere 
any  jar  between  their  own  reality  and  the  real 
appearance  of  their  surroundings. 

The  only  practical  objection  to  this  is  the 
extra  cost  of  construction  and  the  greater  incon- 
venience of  transporting  such  plastic  scenery 
from  city  to  city.  But  the  latter  difliculty  can 
be  lessened  by  the  ingenuity  of  the  stage  car- 
penter, in  constructing  the  scene  so  that  it  can 
be  conveniently  packed  up,  and  it  was  an  ob- 
jection that  evidently  did  not  weigh  with  Mr. 
Miller  or  Mr.  Fiske.  As  to  the  cost,  it  too  can 
be  kept  down  by  lessening  the  number  of  stage 
accessories,  so  that  the  scene  shall  contain  only 
the  salient  characteristic  features  appropriate 
to  the  play.  This  would  tend  to  that  desirable 
result,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  feature  of  some 
of  the  finest  art  —  a  synthesis  of  effect,  a  sim- 
plicity of  the  parts,  promoting  increased  effec- 
tiveness of  the  whole. 

65 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

This  use  of  plastic  scenery  that  I  am  urging 
has  for  more  than  thirty  years  been  adopted  in 
interiors.  Many  of  us  can  remember  the  time 
when,  for  example,  a  library-set  with  its  cor- 
nice, bookshelves,  fireplace,  doors,  and  window 
frames  was  painted  entirely  on  the  flat  in  a  per- 
spective, the  point  of  sight  of  which  was  sup- 
posed to  be  the  center  of  the  front  of  the  first 
balcony.  What  was  the  result.?  From  every 
other  part  of  the  house  the  perspective  was  more 
or  less  false.  Further,  when  a  door  or  window 
was  opened,  the  walls  of  this  grand  library  were 
found  to  have  a  solid  depth  of  one  inch  and  a 
half,  and  they  waved  in  the  wind  when  an  actor 
banged  the  door.  Of,  if  he  approached  the 
fireplace,  the  reality  of  his  appearance  soon 
manifested  the  sham  of  the  mantelpiece  and  its 
painted  clock  and  vase. 

Nowadays,  however,  not  always,  but  in  all 
up-to-date  scenes,  the  projections  are  modeled 
in  relief;  the  door-frames  show  the  proper 
depth;  the  ornaments  and  fittings  seem  as  real 
as  the  furniture,  and  the  dejected  heroine  can 
rest  her  arm  upon  a  real  mantelpiece.  It  is  the 
extension  of  this  principle  to  out-of-door  scenes 
that    is    occupying    the    attention    of    modern 

66 


The  Stage  —  Pictorial 

progressive  managers;  when,  that  is  to  say, 
their  progressiveness  is  not  merely  commercial 
but  is  prompted  by  artistic  enterprise. 

With  some,  however,  there  is  a  tendency  to 
ignore  the  lessons  of  modern  pictorial  art. 
These  are  towards  simplicity  and  synthesis. 
It  is  not  by  a  profusion  of  detail,  but  by  the  care- 
ful selection  of  what  is  salient  and  characteristic, 
that  the  best  pictorial  art  is  now  distinguished; 
and  by  the  massing  of  effects.  The  eye  then  is 
not  distracted  by  a  multitude  of  trivialities,  but  re- 
ceives a  harmonious  impression  of  the  whole  scene. 

Similarly,  to  crowd  the  stage  with  a  quantity 
of  detail  and  to  load  the  action  of  the  piece  with 
innumerable  touches  of  "business"  may  help 
to  disguise  the  thinness  of  a  poor  play,  but  will 
interfere  with  the  impressiveness  of  a  good  one. 
They  are  introduced  to  increase  the  illusion  of 
reality,  and,  because  they  seem  to  do  so,  are 
applauded  by  the  thoughtless. 

But  what  is  the  reality  they  suggest.?  Is  it 
their  own  reality,  considered  separately,  or  the 
reality  of  that  vastly  more  important  thing,  the 
scene  considered  as  a  whole.?  If  they  disturb 
the  impression  of  the  latter,  or  delay  the  main 
purpose  of  the  action,  their  introduction  may 

67 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

afford  a  trivial  satisfaction  to  the  ignorant,  but 
it  is  bad  in  art.  For  art  implies  some  central 
motive,  into  harmony  with  which  all  the  con- 
tributory details  are  subordinated.  The  whole 
point  is  that  such  managers  who  indulge  in  this 
superabundance  of  triviality  are  trying  to  imi- 
tate nature  in  their  stage-picture,  instead  of 
translating  nature  into  terms  of  art.  They 
appeal  to  the  audience's  ignorance  of  what  art 
really  is;  just  as  do  some  painters  of  easel-pic- 
tures. People  buy  the  latter  because  they 
"look  so  natural.'*  In  fact,  probably  seventy 
per  cent,  of  American  collectors  begin  with  this 
class  of  picture;  only,  however,  to  get  rid  of 
them  in  a  short  time,  as  their  taste  and  knowl- 
edge improve. 

So  once  more,  as  always,  we  are  face  to  face 
with  the  responsibility  of  the  audience  for  the 
character  and  quality  of  the  stage  production. 
The  majority  will  probably  always  be  ignorant 
of  art,  and  content  with  petty  realism  because 
it  "looks  so  natural."  Meanwhile,  the  minority, 
which  it  may  be  hoped  will  increase  in  numbers, 
will,  like  the  average  collector  of  pictures,  out- 
grow the  childish  appreciation  of  mere  realism,  and 
demand  its  subordination  to  the  artistic  ensemble. 

68 


Mystery  Performaxce  ix  the  Fifteenth  Century. 

The  Martyrdom  of  St.  Apdhnia.    After  a  title-page  by  Jehan  Fauqttet. 

(See  page  36.) 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   ACTOR 

THE  actor,  Shakespeare  makes  Hamlet  say, 
should  "hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature.'* 
It  is  a  statement  that,  notwithstanding  so  great 
an  authority,  is  to  be  accepted  with  a  consider- 
able grain  of  salt. 

In  the  first  place,  such  a  definition  of  acting 
will  not  apply  to  the  classic  Greek  drama,  or  to 
that  of  Oriental  countries,  India  for  example, 
China  and  Japan.  In  the  second  place,  it  is  too 
easily  interpreted  to  mean  that  good  acting  con- 
sists in  being  natural;  it  confuses  the  distinction 
that  separates  nature  from  art.  It  would  be 
truer  to  say  that,  while  an  actor  should  take 
nature  for  his  model,  just  as  a  painter  does,  he, 
no  more  than  the  latter,  should  merely  imitate 
it.  Instead  he  should  give  a  synthesis  of  nature, 
colored  with  his  own  personality.  Thus,  act- 
ing, considered  as  an  art,  is  not  imitation  but 
interpretation,     with     opportunities     of     being 

creative. 

69 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

This  is  a  conception  of  acting  pretty  nearly 
obhterated  in  America.  And  the  reason  is, 
that  to-day  either  a  play  is  written  to  suit  the 
personal  idiosyncrasies  of  such  and  such  a 
"star"  performer;  or  search  is  made  for  people 
who  in  real  life  are  as  nearly  as  possible  like  the 
characters  in  the  play.  And,  since  the  majority 
of  plays  represent  modern  life,  the  performers 
conduct  themselves  on  the  stage  as  they  do  off  it. 
They  are  not  acting,  but  simply  being  themselves. 

But  we  will  consider  this  point  presently.  I 
only  mention  it  now  to  show  the  trend  of  this 
discussion. 

To  return  to  the  inconsistency  of  Shake- 
speare's definition  with  the  conditions  of  Greek 
acting.  So  far  as  we  know  anything  about  the 
subject,  the  Greek  actor  of  the  classic  period 
must  have  relied  very  little  upon  suggesting  an 
illusion  of  nature.  Appearing  in  the  open  air 
and  before  large  audiences,  he  had  to  increase 
the  effectiveness  of  his  person.  He  raised  him- 
self by  binding  high  wooden  clogs  on  his  feet. 
These  must  have  interfered  with  the  speed  and 
naturalness  of  his  movements.  He  is  repre- 
sented on  vases  as  wearing  a  mask.  Whether 
this  custom  was  usual  or  exceptional  is  disputed. 

70 


The  Actor 

But,  on  the  occasions  that  the  mask  was  worn, 
the  immobile  features,  exaggerated  so  as  to 
"carry  far,"  would  still  further  lessen  any  illu- 
sion of  naturalness.  Even  if  the  supposition  is 
unwarrantable  that  some  instrument  was  fitted 
into  the  mask  at  the  mouth,  or  possibly  carried 
by  the  actor  in  his  own  mouth,  to  increase  the 
volume  of  his  voice,  at  least  the  necessity  of 
making  his  words  reach  the  ears  of  seventeen 
thousand  people  —  the  present  estimate  of  the 
audience  in  the  theater  of  Dionysos  —  would 
oblige  him  to  speak  with  a  deliberation  that 
was  unnatural.  In  fact,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  actual  conditions  of  Greek  acting,  they 
must  have  been  such  as  to  render  impossible 
any  nuances  of  facial,  vocal,  and  gestural  ex- 
pression. The  effects  aimed  at  must  have  been 
simple,  broad,  and  emphatic. 

As  the  actor  waited  for  his  voice  to  carry,  so 
he  no  doubt  held  his  pose  that  it  also  might 
carry.  Moreover,  since  the  drama  still  retained 
some  flavor  of  its  original  religious  motive  and 
was  an  outgrowth  of  the  Dithyramb,  it  is  rea- 
sonable to  suppose  that  a  certain  ceremonial 
solemnity  still  affected  the  poses  and  gestures, 
and    some    form    of    chanting    or    cantilation 

71 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

characterized  the  speech.  So  one  imagines 
Greek  acting  to  have  presented  a  series  of 
slowly  changing  rhythmic  movements  accom- 
panied by  sonorous  utterance;  groupings  and 
re-groupings  of  living  statuary;  even  the  orotund 
resonance  of  the  vocal  delivery  having  some- 
thing of  a  plastic  quality.  Such,  at  least,  we 
picture  it  in  the  ^Eschylean  drama.  With 
Sophocles  there  may  have  been  more  approach 
to  natural  suggestion,  as  there  must  have  been 
still  more  in  the  emotional  melodramas  of 
Euripides.  Thus,  in  its  origin  and  at  its  best, 
Greek  acting  did  not  vie  with  nature  but  rather 
expressed  itself  by  symbol. 

It  has  been  said  that  all  great  art  involves  a 
certain  quality  of  symbolism.  Symbolism,  ob- 
serve, not  allegory,  with  which  some  people  con- 
fuse it.  Allegory  is  the  embodiment  in  human 
form  of  an  abstract  idea;  the  abstract  idea  of 
humanity,  for  example,  in  the  person  of  "Every- 
man"; and  of  "Riches,"  "Good-Deeds,"  or 
"Fellowship,"  in  an  actual  person,  whose  ap- 
pearance and  speech,  if  any,  shall  suggest  the 
character.  The  great  example  of  this  in  our 
literature  is  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  which 
is  a  matured  outgrowth  of  the  allegorical  Moral- 

72 


The  Actor 

'ity  plays  of  the  Middle  Ages.  From  the  same 
source  also  sprang  the  motive  of  allegorical 
representation  that  abounds  in  the  altar-pieces 
and  decorative  paintings  of  the  Renaissance. 
To  the  people  of  that  age,  the  cultured  and 
ignorant  alike,  allegory  spoke  with  meaning. 
To  our  own  eye,  I  believe  it  does  not.  The 
attempt  to  write  a  modern  Morality  play  along 
those  lines  is  a  mistake,  because  in  our  litera- 
ture and  to  our  habit  of  thinking  so  crude  a 
representation  of  character  has  been  superseded 
by  character-studies,  intimate  and  searching. 
Meanwhile  the  capacity  for  appreciating  sym- 
bolism has  grown. 

Symbolism  may  be  connected  with  some 
object  in  a  picture  or  some  definite  thing  in  a 
drama,  or  it  may  in  some  more  subtle  way 
pervade  the  atmosphere  of  the  theme.  Sar- 
gent's painting,  for  example,  in  the  Boston 
Public  Library,  contains  a  row  of  angels  bear- 
ing, respectively,  a  crown  of  thorns,  a  ladder,  a 
spear,  and  so  forth,  which  we  recognize  at  once 
as  symbols  or  emblems  of  the  Passion  of  Christ. 
Ordinarily  a  sponge  or  ladder  would  arouse  no 
mental  emotions;  but  here,  seen  in  relation  to 
the  rest  of  the  subject,  it  acquires  a  meaning 

73 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

that  excites  a  train  of  thought  or  of  spiritual 
experience.  Similarly,  the  repeated  mention  of 
the  drain  in  Mr.  Kennedy's  The  Servant  in  the 
House  awakes  an  intellectual  and  spiritual  con- 
sciousness, that  becomes  to  our  imagination  the 
symbol  of  an  idea,  underlying  the  whole  struc- 
ture of  the  plot.  In  the  use  of  this  symbol  the 
author  proves  himself  a  student  of  Ibsen,  in 
whose  dramas  such  forms  of  symbolism  abound. 

But  there  is  a  form  of  symbolism  even  more 
evasive  than  this,  where  nothing  is  shown  or 
said  definitely  to  direct  our  thought  and  yet  a 
consciousness  is  aroused;  and  it  is  in  its  posses- 
sion of  this,  I  imagine,  that  all  great  art  may 
be  said  to  involve  a  quality  of  symbolism.  I 
do  not  know  how  better  to  describe  it  than  that 
a  work  of  art,  possessing  it,  creates  its  own 
atmosphere  of  aesthetic  and  intellectual  and 
spiritual  suggestion.  The  forms,  the  colors, 
the  sounds,  indirectly  stimulate  our  senses  and 
through  them  convey  an  unexplainable  but  per- 
fectly realized  stimulus  to  the  mind  or  to  the 
spiritual  imagination. 

It  was  in  this  sense,  we  may  believe,  that  the 
Greek  art  of  acting  was  preeminently  symbolic. 
The  sound  of  the  voices  was  not  such  as  would 

74 


The  Actor 

ordinarily  be  associated  with  the  meaning  of  the 
words;  even  the  poses,  gestures,  and  movements 
had  less  of  individual  and  separate  meaning 
than  a  capacity  to  create  a  sustained  harmony 
of  impression.  The  actors  wove  around  them- 
selves an  atmosphere  of  spiritual  suggestion, 
that  permeated  the  consciousness  of  the  vast 
audience. 

In  a  modern  revival  of  a  Greek  drama  it  would 
be  futile  and  certainly  unconvincing  to  attempt 
an  exact  reproduction  of  the  form  of  Greek 
acting.  The  vocal  and  physical  technique  would 
seem  artificial;  being  altogether  removed  from 
our  modern  need  of  having  some  illusion  of 
nature  introduced.  We  demand  at  least  some 
compromise  between  the  natural  method  and 
the  symbolism  of  Greek  acting.  Recognizing 
this  fact  and  pursuing  it  to  a  logical  conclusion, 
the  German  author,  H.  von  Hofmannsthal,  has 
reconstructed  the  Electra  of  Sophocles,  to  adjust 
the  theme  to  modern  motives  and  conditions. 
He  was  not  satisfied  merely  to  modernize  the 
form  of  the  acting,  he  must  modernize  also  that 
of  which  the  acting  was  the  expression,  the 
spiritual  motive  of  the  drama.  It  is  no  longer 
the  inexorable  workings  of  Destiny,   avenging 

75 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

a  wrong  done  to  Divine  Law;  it  has  become  the 
personal  desire  for  vengeance  of  a  woman  who 
has  had  a  wrong  done  to  herself.  Electra  and 
the  others  have  ceased  to  be  pawns  in  the  move 
of  Destiny,  symbols  of  man's  helplessness  in  its 
inevitable  and  invincible  grip;  they  are  become 
individuals,  no  longer  swayed  from  without, 
but  goaded  from  within.  In  point  of  time  they 
have  been  brought  down,  at  least  to  that  of 
Shakespeare.  The  symbolism  that  their  acting 
involves  is  an  expression  of  the  heroic  and 
romantic  motives  that  inspired  Shakespeare 
and  have  been  continued  through  Corneille, 
Racine,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Victor  Hugo,  down 
to  our  own  days  in  Rostand. 

These  dramatists,  selected  from  a  long  role 
of  heroic  and  romantic  writers,  are  to  the 
modern  world  what  the  classic  tragic  poets  were 
to  the  old.  By  them,  however,  the  motive  has 
been  brought  down  to  earth;  and  the  persons  of 
the  drama  have  become  characters,  and  the 
acting  expressive  of  personality.  But  although 
the  drama  has  come  down  to  earth,  it  has  not 
yet  reached  the  level  of  every-day  life,  it  is  still 
upon  the  heights.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  poetic 
in  form;  neither  the   thought  nor  the   speech 

76 


The  Actor 

is  familiar,  e very-day  currency.  Secondly,  it  is 
mostly  concerned  with  exalted  persons,  or  at 
least  with  conditions  of  exalted  emotion,  and 
with  situations  lifted  above  ordinary  experience. 
If  the  personages  are  no  longer  symbols,  as  in 
Greek  drama,  they  are  not  yet  the  flesh  and 
blood  individuals  of  familiar  life  —  they  are 
types. 

In  a  sense,  no  doubt,  all  characters,  whether 
in  a  modern  novel  or  in  a  drama,  are  types;  they 
embody  certain  qualities  that  are  shared  by 
thousands.  Yet,  as  compared  with  the  intimate 
analysis  that  an  Ibsen  or  Sudermann  applies 
to  character-study,  the  characterization  of  the 
heroic  and  romantic  authors  is  not  individual 
but,  in  a  pronounced  way,  typal. 

This  fact  affects  the  acting.  It  calls  for  a 
method  that  again  contradicts  Shakespeare's 
advice  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature.  We 
recognize,  of  course,  that  he  had  in  mind  the 
extravagances  of  certain  tempestuous  fellows 
who  would  catch  the  ear  of  the  groundlings 
by  mere  noise  and  fume,  by  tearing  a  passion 
to  tatters.  The  actor  must  not  overleap  the 
bounds  of  nature.  But  that  he  should  behave 
as  ordinary  men  and  women  would  naturally 

77 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

behave  if  confronted  with  similar  conditions  of 
emotion,  Shakespeare  probably  did  not  mean  to 
imply.  At  any  rate  the  practice  of  all  the  best 
actors  and  the  best  traditions  of  acting  in  the 
Heroic  and  Romantic  drama  are  opposed  to  it. 

The  point  is,  that  acting,  being  an  art,  has 
its  conventions,  and  they  will  differ  according 
to  the  form  of  the  art  and  the  motive  prompting 
the  choice  of  that  form.  When  the  form  is, 
poetical,  and  the  motive  heroic  or  romantic,  the 
conventions  must  involve  a  broader  and  more 
highly  colored  method  than  when  the  form  is 
prose  and  the  motive  is  to  depict  real  life.  Yet 
this  distinction  is  overlooked  by  audiences  and 
by  actors;  the  reason  being  that  in  this  country 
at  the  present  moment  we  have  almost  forgotten 
that  acting  is  an  art. 

The  distinction  may  be  paralleled  in  painting 
by  the  difference  between  a  Dutch  genre  picture 
and  a  Venetian  mural  painting.  The  latter  is 
by  comparison,  a  vast  canvas,  characterized  by 
decorative  display,  filling  the  eye  with  the 
amplitude  of  its  composition  and  the  sweeping 
grandeur  of  its  line.  It  is  so  that  a  heroic  or 
romantic  play,  especially  if  it  be  poetic,  fills  the 
imagination.     I  do  not  mean  that  it  need  be  or 

78 


The  Actor 

should  be  accompanied  by  spectacular  acces- 
sories. That  is  another  question.  I  am  think- 
ing rather  of  its  theme,  and  the  mental  picture 
that  the  latter  creates.  It  is,  in  fact,  on  a  heroic 
scale,  and  to  this  the  acting  must  be  keyed. 

The  actor  must  have  a  presence  that  fills  the 
eye;  that  creates  a  suggestion  of  bigness,  dis- 
tinction, and  more  than  ordinary  impressive- 
ness.  In  silence,  as  in  speech,  in  moving,  as 
when  motionless,  his  presence  must  have  weight 
and  carrying  power.  He  may  not  be,  like  the 
elder  Salvini,  of  monumental  stature,  but  he 
must  have  the  capacity,  such  as  Booth  had,  of 
creating  a  monumental  impression.  Again,  as 
in  the  old  paintings,  where  the  artist  gave  to 
his  figures  a  perfection  of  form,  the  actor  must 
train  his  body  to  be  an  instrument  of  perfect 
expression,  of  beauty  in  some  parts,  of  character 
in  all.  Then  for  his  gestures,  they  too  must 
share  the  characteristics  of  the  grand  style  in 
painting,  the  free  sweep  of  rhythmic  movement. 
The  heroic  and  romantic  drama  calls  for  a 
greater  quantity  of  gesture,  and  gesture  of  a 
more  pronounced  kind,  than  the  realistic  drama 
needs.  It  represents  an  exalted  view  of  life 
And  emotion,  and  it  demands  a  certain  exag- 

79 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

geration  of  style,  and  in  some  kinds  of  romantic 
drama  even  a  certain  flamboyancy. 

I  know  that  in  recent  years  there  has  been 
an  attempt  to  represent  the  poetic  drama  in  a 
more  "natural"  way;  to  colloquialize  the  verse, 
and  reduce  the  amount  and  scope  of  gesture. 
It  is  a  welcome  change  from  much  that  was 
bombastic,  mouthing,  and  pompously  artificial. 
But  it  is  a  change  that  may  easily  be  carried 
too  far.  For  until  we  habitually  conduct  our 
business,  our  courtship,  our  quarrels  and  so 
forth,  in  poetry,  the  poetic  drama  must  con- 
tinue to  represent  something  different  from  real 
life.  As  compared  with  the  genre  drama  it 
must  still  be  in  the  grand  style. 

A  recent  fine  example  of  this  style  is  the  per- 
formance of  Otis  Skinner  in  the  Honor  of  the 
Family,  a  play  of  the  humorously  romantic 
kind.  The  whole  value  of  the  piece  rests  upon 
the  humor  of  its  romantic  unreality;  and  the 
actor  gave  his  part  just  the  right  touch  of  flam- 
boyant picturesqueness. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  production  of  Percy 
Mackaye*s  Sappho  and  Phaon,  apart  from  all 
question  of  its  merit  as  a  stage-play,  was  pre- 
doomed  to  failure  by  the  lack  of  poetic  quality 

80 


The  Actor 

in  the  acting.  Such  heightening  of  effects  as 
was  attempted  was  of  a  melodramatic  character, 
more  suggestive  of  the  exaggerated  emotions 
of  commonplace  life.  Neither  the  diction  nor 
the  movements  and  gestures  had  the  melodic 
and  rhythmic  qualities. 

As  to  the  need  of  the  melodic  quality  in  the 
speaking  of  verse  there  can  be  no  question. 
This  does  not  mean  that  in  poetic  diction  the 
speaking  voice  and  the  singing  voice  are  to  be 
confused.  Even  in  Greek  drama  we  are  told 
by  Aristotle  that  the  distinction  was  maintained. 
But  the  melody  of  the  verse,  the  tone  variations 
of  the  vowel  sounds,  the  varying  character  of 
the  consonants,  the  sustained  lilt,  or  rise  and 
fall,  or  gathering  surge  of  sound  —  all  this  must 
be  rendered  through  the  variations  of  pitch, 
inflection,  volume,  and  by  the  shading.  Further, 
through  phrasing,  or  the  breaking  up  of  the 
sequence,  not  necessarily  by  punctuation,  but 
through  pauses,  suggested  by  the  meaning  and 
melody  of  the  words,  as  well  as  by  variations  of 
the  tempo,  the  rhythmic  quality  of  the  verse  is 
interpreted. 

It  may  seem  a  little  like  stretching  the  sense 
of  words  to  describe  gesture  and  movement  as 

81 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

melodic.  Yet  any  reader  who  can  remember 
Mary  Anderson's  grace  of  action,  when  she 
came  floating  down  through  the  wood,  as  Per- 
dita  in  A  Winter  s  Tale,  will  agree  that  it  had 
the  suggestion  of  a  spring  song.  So,  too,  was 
there  a  beauty,  as  of  music,  in  the  poses  of  her 
Galatea;  and  to  come  down  to  later  times, 
there  was  a  similar  musical  suggestion  in  Miss 
Matthison's  Everyman,  and  in  Forbes  Robert- 
son's Hamlet,  as  there  is  also  in  Mile.  Genee's 
dancing.  There  is  a  quality  in  the  action  of 
body  and  limbs  that  arouses  an  abstract  de- 
light, not  incomparable  to  the  kind  which 
melody  excites. 

The  reason  is  that  the  action,  as  painters 
would  say,  has  a  beautiful  '*  movement."  Action 
to  the  painter  simply  implies  the  moving  or 
stationary  pose  of  a  figure;  the  functional  play 
of  body  and  limb,  demanded  by  the  act  in  which 
it  is  engaged.  But,  while  representing  this  with 
ease  and  naturalness,  the  painter,  in  his  choice 
of  the  precise  moment  in  the  act  that  he  will 
represent,  strives  for  a  distribution  of  the  body 
and  limbs  that  shall  involve  also  a  beauty  of 
movement.  That  is  to  say,  a  continuous  line 
or  growth  of  feeling,  moving  through  the  whole 

82 


The  Actor 

figure,  and  returning  upon  itself,  so  that  a  con- 
tinuity of  curving,  wave-like  motions  flows  up- 
wards and  downwards  throughout  the  whole 
figure. 

Similarly,  in  the  finest  kind  of  poetic  or  heroic 
acting,  there  is  a  great  deal  more  than  mere 
action,  easy  and  natural.  Every  part  of  the 
action  is  so  subtly  related  to  every  other  part, 
that  there  is  a  continuous  undulation  of  move- 
ment in  every  phase  of  it.  This  movement 
appears  in  the  actual  pose  assumed;  its  feeling 
is  continued  in  the  pauses  in  which  the  pose  is 
held,  and  is  again  perceived  in  the  transition 
from  immobility  to  moving  into  a  new  pose. 
It  links  every  part  of  the  active  and  passive 
action  into  a  rhythmic  unity. 

Yes,  *' active  and  passive  action,"  for  in  fine 
acting  the  body  is  as  instinct  with  movement  in 
those  passive  phases,  when  the  actor  is  listening, 
as  in  the  active  moments  of  speaking.  The 
ordinary  actor  or  actress  is  not  a  good  listener. 
Instead  of  appearing  to  take  in  every  word  of 
the  speaker  and  to  be  affected  by  it,  he  or  she 
is  simply  waiting  for  his  or  her  turn  to  speak. 
They  remain  stockishly  passive,  until  their  cue 
arrives,   when  they  immediately  and  abruptly 

83 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

start  off  acting  with  what  they  call  action.  It 
is  so  they  interpret  Shakespeare's  advice:  "Suit 
the  action  to  the  word  and  the  word  to  the 
action."  For  the  most  part  they  take  it  to  mean: 
keep  quiet  when  you  are  silent;  but,  when  you 
speak,  do  something  with  your  hands.  Hence 
in  an  average  performance  there  is  no  rhythm 
of  action  either  in  the  individual  or  in  the  give 
and  take  of  the  dialogue;  the  whole  effect  is  a 
jerky  interchange  of  starts  and  stops. 

But  what  did  Shakespeare  mean  by  his  ad- 
vice .'^  Simply,  one  may  suppose,  that  the  pose 
or  action  must  not  be  unnecessary,  introduced 
for  its  own  sake  to  display  the  actor's  agility  or 
grace,  but  that  it  must  be  related  to  the  actual 
meaning  of  the  words.  This  is  a  very  elemental 
conception  of  the  use  of  action,  which  the  art 
of  successive  generations  of  fine  acting  has  ex- 
panded. In  this  elementary  sense,  it  is  cus- 
tomary for  the  action  to  precede  the  word. 
The  gesture  indicates  in  a  broad  and  general 
way  the  idea,  which  is  definitely  explained  in  the 
following  words.  Thus,  for  example,  an  actress 
stretches  her  arms  in  front  of  her  with  the  palms 
uppermost.  We  conclude  she  has  a  petition  or 
entreaty  to  express.     The  speech  that  follows 

84 


The  Actor 

the  action  explains  to  us  and  to  the  actor  whom 
she  is  addressing  the  nature  of  it.  Her  speech 
finished,  the  actor  averts  his  head  and  stretches 
out  his  arm,  as  if  to  keep  her  at  a  distance.  We 
know  thereby  that  he  dechnes  her  suit;  we  wait 
for  his  words  to  tell  us  why.  Or  he  points  to 
the  door:  and  the  following  words,  that  she 
shall  leave  the  room,  are  not  necessary,  though 
they  may  add  to  the  emphasis  of  the  dismissal. 
To  the  average  dramatic  student,  the  average 
actor  or  actress,  and  the  greater  part  of  their 
audience,  this  kind  of  thing  is  what  is  implied 
by  action,  and  this  only. 

Well,  let  us  admit  that  this  use  of  action  befits 
the  heroic  and  romantic  drama.  It  adds  nothing 
to  the  meaning  of  the  words,  but  it  does  broaden 
and  heighten  and  give  color  to  their  impressive- 
ness.  It  helps  to  fill  out  the  big  canvas  which 
this  form  of  drama  demands;  it  is  essential  to 
the  grand  style,  demanded  by  the  theme.  By 
the  same  token  it  may  be  out  of  place,  as  I  hope 
to  show,  in  genre  drama. 

But,  pursuing  our  simile  of  the  big  canvas, 
let  us  insist  that  such  action  shall  not  only  add 
weight  to  individual  speeches,  but  that  it  shall 
have  those  qualities  of  movement  and  rhythmic 

85 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

continuity  that  unite  all  parts  of  the  stage  pic- 
ture into  one,  and  make  of  it  a  grand  com- 
position, worthy  of  the  theme.  This  may  not 
have  been  intended  by  Shakespeare,  but  it  has 
certainly  become  the  aim  of  modern  stage- 
management,  when,  as  is  not  often,  it  knows 
its  business.  Especially,  since  the  representa- 
tion of  the  drama  has  become  pictorial,  the 
necessity  of  making  the  action  a  series  of  finely 
composed  pictures  has  been  understood.  It  is, 
however,  too  frequently  overlooked.  Acting 
now  challenges  comparison  with  pictures;  it 
cannot  help  doing  so.  Yet  how  many  stage 
managers,  I  wonder,  have  any  knowledge  of 
pictorial  composition.  They  simply  load  their 
canvas,  I  mean  the  stage,  with  crowds  of  figures, 
and  the  audience,  looking  for  nothing  but  sen- 
sational effect,  applauds. 

However,  the  point  that  we  have  reached  in 
our  discussion  is  that  action  is  not  merely  con- 
cerned with  the  meaning  of  the  words;  it  should 
also  be  interpretive.  Of  what.^  In  the  first 
place,  certainly,  of  the  individual  character. 
Mary  Anderson  in  her  action  interpreted  the 
gay  buoyant  youth  of  Perdita.  She  was  a 
symbol  of  the  spring-time  of  life.     But  of  more 

86 


The  Actor 

than  this,  for  her  entrance  marked  that  the 
winter  of  misunderstanding  was  past.  It,  in 
effect,  was  a  prologue  to  the  second  part  of  the 
play  in  which  all  sorrow  is  to  be  finally  for- 
gotten in  happiness.  It  interpreted  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  movement  —  an  allegretto, 
following  the  adagio.  Lastly,  the  movement 
and  the  rhythm  of  her  action  were  physical 
interpretations  of  the  poetry,  pervading  the 
whole  drama,  of  the  poetic  conception  of  its 
theme,  of  the  imagery  with  which  it  is  wrought 
out,  and  of  the  music  of  the  poet's  verse. 

There  we  have  it.  The  actor  is  not  a  walking 
semaphore,  or  sign-post.  His  body  should  be  an 
instrument,  capable  of  infinite  expression;  and 
the  purpose  of  his  action  should  be  to  interpret, 
not  only  the  shades  of  his  own  moods  and 
thoughts,  but  also  the  melody  and  rhythm  of 
the  poetry  of  the  whole  piece.  His  action, 
therefore,  while  less  formal  and  abstract  than 
the  Greeks,  should  still  be  symbolic  of  the 
spiritual  intention  of  the  play.  Every  phase 
of  it  should  interpret  the  movement  and  rhythm 
of  the  poetry. 

It  was  so  that  Wagner  conceived  of  action, 
and  it  was   so   that  he   trained   his   actors  at 

87 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Baireuth  to  become  artists.  One  of  the  most 
perfect  exponents  of  this  ideal,  as  appHed  to 
opera,  is  Madame  Ternina,  whose  every  pose 
and  gesture  is  a  living,  plastic  interpretation  of 
the  music.  But  to  this  almost  purely  abstract 
interpretation  the  actor  of  non-musical  poetic 
dramas  must  add  an  interpretation  of  the  con- 
crete meaning  of  the  words.  Yet  while  he  in- 
terprets a  dejfinite  thought  or  mood,  his  action 
must  not  be  regulated  solely  by  this;  it  should 
include  suflScient  abstract  suggestion  to  inter- 
pret also  the  prevailing  poetry  of  the  whole 
drama.  That  is  to  say,  it  should  be  not  only 
natural  and  characteristic,  but  to  some  extent 
formal  and  abstract-symbolic.  If  it  is  not,  he 
drags  the  poetry  down  to  merely  embarrassed 
prose,  and  makes,  what  should  be  an  ideally 
exalted  theme,  rub  shoulders  to  its  own  dis- 
paragement with  what  is  made  to  appear  an 
impossibly  exaggerated  form  of  realism. 

When  we  come  to  what  I  have  called  the 
genre  drama,  the  picture  of  smaller  canvas 
whose  theme  approximates  to  the  characters 
and  manners  and  situations  of  ordinary  life,  we 
again  meet  with  the  distinction  between  height- 
ened color  and  color  pitched  to  a  natural  key. 

88 


The  Actor 

The  heightened  color  may  be  due  to  an  excess 
of  humor,  involving  character  and  situations  of 
various  degrees  of  extravagance,  reaching  all 
the  way  to  a  romping  farce.  Or  it  may  be  due 
to  the  loading  of  the  canvas  with  emotion,  and 
to  exaggerated  contrasts  of  good  and  bad,  to 
situations  unusual  and  sensational.  It  is  clear 
that  in  both  cases  the  acting  will  properly  par- 
take of  the  immoderate  suggestion.  It  should 
not  be  judged  in  reference  to  real  life,  but  accord- 
ing to  the  particular  degree  of  exaggerated 
realism  at  which  the  author  has  aimed.  The 
form  of  the  acting  must  correspond  to  the 
character  of  the  material  embodied,  and  we  can 
only  apply  to  it  the  general  test  —  is  the  acting 
consistent  with  the  spirit  of  the  play  ?  If  a  hero 
or  heroine,  passionately  in  love  with  each  other, 
are  hounded  by  a  villain  whose  machinations 
drive  them  into  a  series  of  crises,  threatening 
both  their  union  and  their  lives,  until  at  some 
supreme  moment  villainy  is  unmasked  and 
virtue  triumphs,  we  may  demand  that  neither 
the  hero  nor  the  heroine  shall  be  merely  a  sen- 
timental gusher,  that  the  one  throughout  shall 
be  a  man,  the  other  truly  womanly,  and  that 
their  enemy  shall  not  have  utter  wickedness  too 

89 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

obviously  writ  all  over  him.  Yet,  considering 
how  much  emotion  and  peril  are  compressed 
into  a  few  short  hours,  we  shall  hesitate  to  say 
that  the  acting  is  overdone.  We  shall  grant 
the  plea  of  reasonable  probability. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  extravagance  of 
humor  the  author  leaves  so  wide  a  margin  of 
play  for  the  personal  idiosyncrasy  of  the  in- 
dividual comedian,  that  any  preconceived 
standard  of  probability  is  impossible.  More 
than  that,  to  attempt  one  would  be  to  rob  our- 
selves of  the  pleasure  of  appreciation.  We 
hope  that  the  acting  will  not  pass  beyond  the 
bounds  of  decency,  and  may  prefer  its  quality 
to  be  dry,  unctuous,  or  subtle,  rather  than 
merely  noisy  or  violent  horse-play.  That  is  a 
matter  of  our  own  idiosyncrasy.  But,  beyond 
this,  we  can  lay  down  no  standard  of  judgment 
We  can  but  take  each  play  as  we  find  it,  and 
then  satisfy  ourselves  as  to  whether,  granted 
this  kind  of  a  subject  and  treatment,  the  acting 
is  conformable  with  the  degree  of  probability  or 
rather  of  improbability  presumed  by  the  author. 

In  fact,  it  is  only  when  a  drama,  approximat- 
ing real  life,  is  founded  on  a  reasonable  motive 
and  pretends  to  reach  a  conclusion  by  natural 

90 


The  Actor 

and  probable  methods,  that  we  find  ourselves 
again  on  firm  ground  for  the  judging  of  acting. 
Here  we  can  formulate  some  general  principles, 
sound  in  themselves  and  valuable  in  their 
application.  Firstly,  for  example,  that,  how- 
ever realistic  the  motive,  acting  must  retain  its 
character  of  being  an  art.  Secondly,  that  in 
approximating  to  nature  the  best  acting  is  dis- 
tinguished by  economy  of  means;  and,  thirdly, 
that  suggestion,  rather  than  overt  acts,  repre- 
sents the  highest  modern  standard. 

As  to  the  first  point :  acting,  for  all  its  natural- 
ness, must  not  be  really  natural;  it  must  retain 
the  conventions  that  art  requires.  And  those 
conventions  in  the  case  of  acting  result  from 
its  being  an  art  that  appeals  primarily  to  the 
senses  of  sound  and  sight.  In  real  life,  people 
visit  one  another  and  after  preliminary  greetings 
seat  themselves.  The  call  may  last  half  an 
hour,  during  which  is  carried  on  a  conversation 
that  may  be  interesting,  but  is  more  or  less 
desultory  and  probably  leads  to  no  other  end 
than  that  of  passing  the  time  pleasantly.  And 
all  the  while  the  group  have  remained  seated, 
some  of  the  party  punctuating  their  remarks  with 
a  certain  amount  of  gesture,  while  the  others, 

91 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

whether  speaking  or  Hstening,  sit  still.  But  if 
a  scene  in  a  play  represented  nothing  more  than 
reality  of  this  kind,  we  should  be  intolerably 
bored.  It  is  true  we  may  be  bored  with  the  real 
thing  also;  but  that  is  another  matter.  We  cer- 
tainly must  not  be  with  the  play.  The  latter, 
indeed,  like  all  realistic  art,  must  give  us  a 
heightened  impression  of  actual  life.  The  dia- 
logue, instead  of  being  desultory,  must  ad- 
vance step  by  step  to  some  definite  end,  in  order 
to  focus  our  attention.  Meanwhile  we  have  to 
listen  to  the  voices.  They  too  must  heighten 
the  impression  of  the  conversation  by  varieties 
of  diction  —  now  soft,  now  loud,  then  quick  or 
leisurely,  and  so  on,  giving  the  dialogue  an 
effectiveness  that  in  ordinary  life  might  seem 
an  affectation.  But  this  is  necessary  on  the 
stage,  that  the  ear  may  be  continually  quickened 
to  alertness  and  satisfied  with  the  meaning  and 
beauty  of  the  sounds. 

Similarly  the  eye  needs  satisfaction.  It  will 
weary  of  sameness;  the  figures  must  vary  their 
positions;  change  their  seats,  occasionally  walk 
the  floor,  or  even  conduct  the  conversation 
standing,  not  for  the  mere  purpose  of  creating 
variety,  but  to  heighten  the  point  and  pungency 

92 


The  Actor 

of  the  dialogue.  Further,  the  poses  and  group- 
ings and  movements  must  be  regulated  so  as  to 
produce  a  series  of  pictures,  agreeable  or  ex- 
pressive to  the  eye.  And  every  one  of  these 
visible  effects  must  be  related  to  the  audible 
ones;  tuned  to  the  sound  and  meaning  of  the 
dialogue,  timed  to  the  exact  moment  of  its 
successive  points  of  emphasis.  Even  the  get- 
ting up  or  sitting  down,  the  lifting  of  a  book 
from  the  table,  the  very  smallest  detail,  must 
be  an  artfully  contrived  accent  to  the  progress 
of  the  scene.  Nothing  done  for  its  own  sake, 
or  in  the  way  of  natural  restlessness  or  vivacity, 
but  tuned  and  regulated  to  a  definite  purpose. 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  finished  art  requires 
that  the  individual  acting  shall  be  regulated  so 
as  to  promote  the  effectiveness  of  the  ensemble. 
Just  as  in  a  fine  picture  the  smallest  detail  is 
rhythmically  related  to  the  whole  composition, 
so  it  should  be  in  acting.  A  "star"  surrounded 
by  "sticks"  will  not  do,  nor  a  star  exploiting 
himself  or  herself  at  the  expense  of  the  other 
characters.  Between  the  greatest  and  the  least 
there  must  be  an  interplay  of  team  work. 

In  the  best  examples  of  ensemble  acting  this 
will   always   have   a   quality   of   rhythm.     The 

93 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

"movement,"  that  we  have  spoken  of  in  con- 
nection with  the  individual  actor,  will  be  com- 
municated to  all  the  people  on  the  stage.  And 
it  will  be  a  rhythm  of  movement  that  appeals 
not  only  to  the  eye  but  to  the  ear.  I  have  never 
had  any  doubt  of  this,  but  was  immensely 
strengthened  in  my  conviction  by  witnessing 
the  recent  performances  of  the  Russian  players, 
headed  by  Madame  Komisarzhevsky.  I  could  not 
understand  a  word  of  the  dialogue,  though  I  was 
conversant  with  the  general  tenor  of  the  scenes,  in 
some  cases  quite  familiar  with  the  speeches  as 
they  would  be  in  English.  But  on  account  of  the 
strangeness  of  the  unknown  tongue  one's  ear  was 
peculiarly  quickened  to  the  effects  of  sound  and 
sight  —  to  what,  may  be  called,  the  abstract 
quality  of  the  diction  and  the  action. 

It  was  delightful  to  hear  how  these  accom- 
plished artists,  accustomed  to  tune  their  own 
individualities  to  the  larger  purpose  of  the 
whole  effect,  carried  forward  the  effectiveness 
of  one  another.  As  a  speaker  finished,  the 
cadence  of  his  or  her  concluding  words  would 
set  the  pitch  to  which  the  following  speaker  set 
the  opening  words  of  his  reply.  Then,  having 
attached  the  sound  of  his  words  to  that  of  the 

94 


The  Actor 

previous  speaker's,  he  would  play  upon  the 
resources  of  his  own  voice.  But  the  effective- 
ness of  the  vocaHzation  was  increased  by  the 
suggestion  that  it  had  grown  out  of  the  spirit 
of  the  scene  and  was  preserving  its  continuity. 

Correspondingly,  in  what  was  visible  to  the 
eye  there  was  a  handing  on  of  gesture,  that  was 
accepted  and  then  modified  to  the  speaker's 
own  individuality  and  to  the  points  of  his  speech. 
There  was  an  unbroken  chain  of  cause  and 
effect  of  gesture.  Instead  of  the  stops  and 
starts  that  distinguish  the  ordinary  haphazard 
methods,  in  which  every  one  does  his  separate 
stunt  for  all  it  is  worth,  or  as  much  as  the 
"star,"  craving  for  chief  recognition,  will  permit, 
there  was  the  rhythmic  play  of  movement,  both 
of  sight  and  sound,  that  characterizes  a  fine  pic- 
torial or  musical  composition.  The  stage  pic- 
ture, indeed,  was  a  composition  in  the  artistic 
sense  of  the  word,  that  all  the  details  were  duly 
related  to  one  another  and  adjusted  to  a  har- 
mony of  ensemble. 

Coming  to  our  second  point  —  economy  of 
means.  The  tendency  of  modern  art,  in  paint- 
ing and  literature,  as  well  as  in  the  drama,  is 
toward  intimacy  and  conciseness  of  expression. 

95 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Character  is  exhaustively  analyzed  and  syn- 
thetically expressed.  In  the  case  of  each  art 
the  canvas  is  smaller,  but  the  composition  is 
infinitely  more  subtle  and  complex.  Through 
the  open  wall  of  the  proscenium  arch  we  watch 
men  and  women,  laying  bare  to  one  another 
their  very  souls.  Human  life,  instead  of  being 
treated  in  large  and  general  terms,  is  focused 
down  to  a  point  of  burning  intensity;  it  is  the 
inner  life,  rather  than  its  externals,  that  forms 
the  motive  of  the  modern  drama.  The  whole 
tendency  of  the  picture  is  toward  intimacy, 
intensity,  and  synthesis  of  expression. 

Recognizing  this,  the  best  actors  and  actresses 
of  modern  serious  drama  regard  gesture  as  a 
thing  to  be  avoided  rather  than  sought  after; 
to  be  used  sparingly,  and  not  for  the  purpose  of 
display,  but  of  fastening  the  attention  on  some 
vital  point.  The  reason  is  simple.  The  con- 
flict on  which  they  wish  to  fasten  our  gaze  is  a 
mental  one;  it  is  within  them;  and  they  can  best 
help  us  to  realize  it  by  not  distracting  our  atten- 
tion to  the  outsides  of  their  persons,  but  by 
riveting  it  on  the  inside  workings  of  the  mind. 
In  Duse's  greatest  moments  her  body  is  im- 
mobile; no  external  movement  disturbs  the  eye; 

96 


The  Actor 

but  within  there  is  an  intensity  of  mental  action 
that  attracts  us  as  a  magnet  draws  a  needle. 
Nor  is  facial  play  essential  to  this  magnetic 
power;  we  can  feel  it  when  her  back  is  turned 
to  us.  It  is  indeed  a  magnetism  that  informs 
the  whole  body.  Such  action  as  is  employed  is 
apt,  in  the  language  of  Delsarte,  to  be  rather 
concentric  than  eccentric;  such,  that  is  to  say, 
as  tends  to  draw  in  upon  itself  rather  than  to 
spread  outward.  Instead  of  the  broad,  sweep- 
ing, extending  gestures  of  romantic  and  heroic 
drama,  the  action  will  be  concentrated;  the 
actor,  for  example,  to  carry  home  his  point, 
resting  his  hand  upon  the  table  and  tapping  it 
with  his  fingers,  while  his  eye  is  fixed  on  the 
face  of  his  companion  and  the  latter's  upon  him. 
For  one  of  the  effects  of  this  compressed  style 
of  acting  is  that  the  people  on  the  stage  seem 
absolutely  wrapt  up  in  what  they  are  doing. 
They  do  not  appear  conscious  of  an  audience. 
If  they  look  in  our  direction,  it  is  with  an  ab- 
stracted or  long-distance  vision  that  passes  far 
beyond  us.  They  are  alone  with  themselves, 
surprised  by  us  in  the  intimacy  of  their  thoughts, 
words,  and  acts.  This  seems  to  be  one  of  the 
tests  of  good  acting  in  modern  serious  drama. 

97 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

As  to  the  third  point,  namely,  that  modern 
acting  relies  upon  suggestion.  It  follows  from 
what  we  have  been  saying.  Since  the  conflict 
of  the  modern  drama  is  so  preeminently  a  mental 
one,  and  the  impression  sought  to  be  created  is 
one  that  will  affect  the  mind,  the  principle  of 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word  has  been  replaced 
by  that  of  elucidating  the  thought  by  suggestion. 
The  latter  may  be  conveyed  by  action,  or  by 
inaction;  it  may  be  a  simple  gesture  or  a  series, 
constituting  "business."  Whatever  it  is,  its 
significance  will  be  apt  to  depend  upon  in- 
direct allusion.  Thus,  in  The  DolVs  House ^  as 
Krogstadt  gradually  makes  Nora  realize  that 
he  has  her  in  his  power,  Mme.  Nazimova  stood 
at  the  table  sorting  a  bunch  of  carnations  into 
threes,  which  she  tied  with  string.  At  first,  she 
is  a  little  restless  under  the  man's  intrusion; 
otherwise  still  the  happy  child.  But,  as  she 
holds  the  last  three  flowers,  the  truth  dawns 
upon  her;  she  stops  in  her  tying,  the  flowers 
drop  one  by  one  from  her  fingers.  The  "busi- 
ness" in  itself  may  seem  ordinary  and  of  no 
particular  significance;  but,  seen  in  relation  to 
the  thought  that  has  gradually  penetrated  her 
mind,  it  has  the  significance  of  a  symbol.     The 

98 


The  Actor 

continuity  of  her  happiness  is  interrupted;  the 
last  moments  of  the  doU-Hfe  lie  scattered. 

This  is  an  example  of  the  kind  of  action  that 
interprets.  It  is  no  longer  directly  suited  to 
the  wordf  it  is  an  illumination,  by  indirect  sug- 
gestion, of  the  thought.  It  is  in  its  modern 
realistic  way  as  truly  symbolic  as  the  more 
formal  abstract  action  of  the  Greeks.  And  I 
venture  to  say  that  it  is  the  kind  of  action  that 
modern  serious  drama  demands.  It  presup- 
poses actors  who  have  minds  and  can  think, 
interpreting  their  dramas  of  thought  to  think- 
ing audiences. 


99 


PART  11 
CHAPTER  V 

THE   PLAY 

IN  the  previous  chapters,  deahng  with  the 
audience,  the  stage,  and  the  actor,  we  have 
discussed  some  of  the  general  conditions  that 
affect  the  material,  the  treatment,  and  the 
representation  of  the  drama.  We  have  now  to 
consider  the  playwright's  part  in  the  matter  — 
the  play  itself. 

The  latter  is  affected  by  the  three  conditions 
we  have  already  considered:  namely,  the  audi- 
ence, the  stage,  and  the  actors.  It  is  occupied 
with  material  in  the  choice  of  which  the  play- 
wright is  influenced  by  his  audience,  or  rather 
by  the  aggregate  of  audiences.  For  he  not  only 
draws  his  material  from  his  study  and  observa- 
tion of  human  nature,  but  he  is  also  dependent 
upon  the  audience  for  the  acceptance  of  his  play 
and  for  the  opportunity  of  its  being  represented. 
Further,  in  his  treatment  of  the  material,  he  is 
necessarily  influenced  by  the  circumstances  that 

100 


I 


The  Play 

will  govern  its  representation  —  the  actual  char- 
acter of  the  stage  of  his  day,  with  its  particular 
possibilities  and  limitations  of  scenery  and 
equipment.  Lastly,  for  its  representation,  the 
crowning  act  of  fertilization  that  makes  his 
work  a  living  drama  —  he  must  depend  upon 
the  actors.  They  have  it  in  their  power  to 
obscure  the  merits  of  a  good  play,  and,  tempo- 
rarily, at  least,  to  give  suggestion  of  vitality  to  a 
bad  one. 

On  the  other  hand,  though  the  playwright 
everywhere  and  always  has  adapted  himself  to 
these  conditions,  as  he  found  them,  the  men 
of  original  mind  have  refused  to  be  subservient 
to  the  restraint.  They  have  used  the  conditions 
but  as  a  pied  a  terre  from  which  to  advance  to 
some  fresh  form  of  vitality,  and  in  doing  so  have 
carried  with  them  to  a  higher  point  of  develop- 
ment the  conditions  themselves.  They  have 
aroused  in  their  audience  a  new  capacity  of 
appreciation,  widened  or  made  more  flexible 
the  conventions  of  the  stage,  and  heightened 
the  possibilities  of  acting.  It  is,  in  fact,  the 
playwright  who  is  the  originator,  the  fertilizer, 
and  the  leader  in  dramatic  progress;  and  the 
history  of  the  drama  is  really  a  history  of  those 

101 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

whom  posterity  has  recognized  as  the  foremost 
dramatists. 

This  being  the  case,  the  intelligent  student 
of  the  drama  will  do  well  to  avoid  any  tendency 
to  fix  rigidly  his  attitude  of  mind  as  to  what  a 
play  should  or  should  not  involve.  It  is  true, 
he  must  to  some  extent  acquaint  himself  with 
the  technique  of  play-writing,  just  as  a  student 
of  pictures  needs  to  have  a  general  idea  of  the 
principles  that  underlie  the  technique  of  paint- 
ing. But  the  student  of  painting  discovers  that 
these  principles  are  various  and  often  con- 
tradictory. He  learns,  therefore,  while  taking 
note  of  all,  to  regard  none  of  them  as  final  or 
infallible;  that,  on  the  contrary,  one  painter 
achieves  merit  through  one  set  of  principles, 
another  through  another.  Thus  he  brings  a 
separate  clearness  of  vision  to  the  study  of  each 
man's  work;  and,  recognizing  the  technical 
motive  and  method  that  it  involves,  judges  it 
only  in  relation  to  the  work  of  other  men,  pur- 
suing similar  ends  by  similar  means.  His 
general  knowledge  of  the  principles  involved 
gives  him  a  standard  of  appeciation  in  each 
particular  case.  But  he  is  ready  at  any  moment 
to  face  the  work  of  some  one  that,  starting  with 

102 


The  Play 

a  given  principle  of  technique,  has  deviated 
somewhat  from  it  or  developed  it  further. 

Similarly,  the  student  of  the  drama  will  study 
the  technique  of  the  art,  not  to  discover  how  a 
play  must  be  written,  but  how  at  various  times 
and  by  various  men  plays  have  been  written. 
He  will  store  up  in  his  mind  a  budget  of  prin- 
ciples which  may  serve  as  a  standard  by  which 
to  judge  of  plays,  but  which  from  time  to  time 
may  be  modified  or  added  to.  For  he  recog- 
nizes that,  as  long  as  the  drama  continues  to  be 
a  living  art,  it  must  change  in  response  to  the 
changing  needs  and  conditions  of  the  human 
life  that  it  embodies. 

I  have  used  the  word  "art,"  which  should 
need  no  justification.  Yet  there  are  many  to 
whom  the  idea  that  drama  is  an  art  has  never 
occurred.  They  have  regarded  the  stage  solely 
as  a  form  of  light  amusement,  and  for  them  the 
drama  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term  does  not 
exist.  All  that  they  demand  is  a  stringing  to- 
gether of  comical  and  attractive  features,  —  a 
medley  of  sights  and  sounds  that  can  begin 
anyw^here,  move  on  briskly  in  any  direction 
whatever,  and  finish  only  when  the  ingenuity 
of  the  concocter,  the  purse  of  the   promoter, 

103 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

and  the  patience  of  the  audience  have  been 
exhausted.  Such  a  conviction,  in  fact,  lacks 
the  very  essentials  that  a  play,  like  every  other 
work  of  art,  must  possess  —  a  clear  motive 
developed  to  an  appropriate  conclusion.  For 
the  essence  of  a  work  of  art  is  that  it  presents  a 
single,  self-sufficient,  self-explanatory  whole; 
a  composition,  characterized  by  unity  of  pur- 
pose and  expression;  that  is  to  say,  a  unity, 
built  up  of  harmoniously  related  parts.  It  is 
from  this  point  of  view  that  we  purpose  to  study 
the  technique  of  the  drama. 

Drama,  so  considered,  is  akin  to  the  other 
fine  arts.  It  shares  with  all  the  element  of 
composition  and,  like  each  of  them,  has  its  own 
particular  possibilities  and  limitations.  We 
have  already  spoken  of  its  relation  to  plastic 
and  to  pictorial  art:  how  it  presents  a  series 
of  moving  statues  or  pictures;  and  have  noted 
that  in  its  regard  for  the  rhythm  of  sight  and 
sound  it  approximates  to  the  art  of  music. 
But  all  this  had  reference  to  the  manner  of  its 
representation.  What  we  are  now  considering 
is  the  antecedent  work  of  the  playwright  in  the 
actual  construction  of  his  play;  and  the  play 
itself,  in    its    character    as    a    composed    work 

104 


The  Play 

of   art,    has   most   in    common    with   architec- 
ture. 

The  latter  is  based  upon  a  plan.  It  is  true, 
the  average  layman  is  apt  to  overlook  this  fact. 
He  judges  a  building  solely  by  the  appearance 
of  its  fa9ades.  The  architect,  however,  begins 
by  designing  his  plan,  which  is  governed,  firstly, 
by  the  conditions  of  the  ground  space  available, 
and,  secondly,  by  the  purpose  for  which  the 
building  is  intended.  It  is  only  when  he  has 
thoroughly  studied  these  points  in  relation  to 
each  other,  and  has  considered  how  he  can  best 
adjust  the  purpose  of  the  building  to  the  ground 
it  is  to  occupy,  and  develop  its  practical  useful- 
ness under  those  conditions  through  each  suc- 
cessive floor  of  the  structure,  that  he  begins  to 
busy  himself  with  the  question  of  external 
appearance.  His  first  concern  is  to  make  the 
internal  structure  completely  practicable  for 
the  purpose  in  view;  in  other  words,  to  secure 
for  it  an  organic  unity.  Then  he  encloses  this 
essential  composition  in  an  exterior  that,  if 
he  is  an  artist,  will  have  an  organic  relation  to 
this  unity.  Thus,  briefly,  to  take  the  case  of 
the  Capitol  at  Washington,  the  end  pavilions, 
with   their   separate   flights   of  steps,   proclaim 

105 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

from  outside  their  internal  provision  for,  re- 
spectively, the  Senate  and  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives, while  the  center  structure  emphasizes 
its  purpose  of  a  noble  ceremonial  entrance.  It  is 
crowned  with  a  dome  that  forms  the  culminating 
feature  in  the  symmetry  of  the  external  mass. 
For  in  the  embellishment  of  the  exterior  also 
there  is  an  organic  unity,  corresponding  to  that 
of  the  internal  structure.  Both  inside  and  out 
the  edifice  presents  a  composition  of  harmoni- 
ously related  parts. 

The  analogy  between  such  an  architectural 
harmony  and  that  involved  in  play-building  is 
eminently  suggestive.  The  site  for  which  the 
author  plans  his  play  is  the  stage.  It  has 
differed,  as  we  have  seen,  at  various  periods, 
and  according  to  its  variations  has  effected  the 
design  of  the  dramatist's  plan,  in  regard  to  both 
the  kind  of  thing  he  shall  represent  and  the 
manner  of  its  representation.  Under  existing 
arrangements  it  has  suggested  and  made  pos- 
sible the  division  of  the  play  into  a  variety  of 
acts  and  scenes.  In  accordance  with  these 
opportunities,  and,  moreover,  in  avoidance  of 
everything  that  cannot  appropriately  be  repre- 
sented on  such  a  fixed  site,  the  author  proceeds 

106 


The  Play 

to  develop  the  purpose  of  his  play.  This  is 
the  motive  of  his  plot,  which  he  lays  out  to  fit 
his  ground  plan  of  scenes,  and  then  builds  up 
story  by  story ;  that  is  to  say,  by  situation  follow- 
ing situation,  evolving  scene  by  scene  the  struc- 
ture of  his  plot,  until  it  culminates  in  a  climax. 
Hitherto  he  has  been  building  up;  but  now  the 
process  is  rather  one  of  building  down,  so  that 
the  latter  part  of  his  play  may  symmetrically 
balance  the  beginning.  Once  more  let  us  recall 
the  Capitol  at  Washington  in  order  to  picture 
to  our  eye  the  dramatist's  composition.  The 
central  feature  with  its  dome  represents  the 
climax.  On  our  left,  as  we  face  the  building, 
the  structure  leads  up  to  the  climax,  and  on 
the  right  it  leads  down,  so  that  with  our  finger 
in  the  air  we  can  trace  the  general  effect  by  two 
curves;  one  ascending,  the  other  descending. 

Now  in  studying  the  Capitol  we  may  see  it  as 
composed  either  of  three  or  of  five  main  parts. 
In  each  case  there  is  the  culminating  center. 
But,  for  the  rest,  we  may  either  regard  every- 
thing to  the  left  of  the  dome  as  one  part  and, 
consequently,  everything  to  the  right  as  another 
part,  making  in  all  three  parts,  or  we  may  note 
that  each  of  the  subsidiary  parts  is  really  made 

107 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

up  of  two  sections  —  the  end  pavilion  and  the 
connecting  wing  or  "curtain."  In  other  words, 
picturing  the  Capitol  as  typical  of  a  play,  we 
may  describe  it  as  a  composition  in  three  or 
five  acts,  reaching  its  climax  in  the  middle  act. 
Leading  up  to  the  Climax,  if  we  continue  the 
phraseology  of  the  drama,  are  the  Introduction 
and  the  Development,  while  following  it  are 
the  Denouement  or  gradual  untying  of  the 
knot  and  the  Catastrophe  or  Conclusion. 

Whether  the  Introduction  and  the  Develop- 
ment are  compressed  into  one  act  or  separated 
into  two,  and  the  Denouement  and  Conclusion 
similarly  compressed  or  expanded,  is  purely  at 
the  discretion  of  the  dramatist.  Indeed,  he 
may,  if  he  sees  fit,  confine  his  entire  planning 
to  one  act,  as  he  will  most  probably  do,  if  his 
design  presupposes  a  small  structure;  that  is 
to  say,  a  short  play.  In  fact,  the  question  of 
the  number  of  acts  is  purely  his  affair;  and  one, 
in  itself,  of  no  intrinsic  importance  to  the  charac- 
ter of  his  play.  If  he  plans  his  plot  so  that 
some  of  the  action  takes  place  in  one  place  and 
the  rest  elsewhere,  he  will  naturally  avail  him- 
self of  the  division  into  acts.  If,  however,  he 
confines  the  action  to  one  scene,  he  may  still 

108 


The  Play 

plan  that  intervals  of  time  shall  separate  the 
various  incidents,  and  accordingly  will  drop 
the  curtain  here  and  there  to  mark  the  inter- 
vals. On  the  other  hand,  he  may,  as  Bernard 
Shaw  in  Getting  Married,  and  Charles  Rann 
Kennedy  in  The  Servant  in  the  House,  have 
recently  done,  conceive  of  his  play  as  a  single 
continuing  episode,  involving  no  change  of 
scene  and  no  interruption  of  time;  in  which 
case  he  will  regard  the  division  into  acts  as 
purely  arbitrary;  and  may  be  disposed  to  quote 
Mr.  Shaw's  admonition,  that  "the  audience  is 
respectfully  requested  to  regard  these  interrup- 
tions as  intended  for  its  convenience,  and  not 
as  part  of  the  author's  design." 

These  two  dramatists,  in  thus  confining  the 
above-mentioned  plays  to  a  single  scene,  repre- 
sented continuously,  have  reverted  to  the  old 
conventions  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place; 
so  that  it  is  convenient  to  take  this  opportunity 
of  discussing  them.  They  form  two  out  of  the 
three  unities  that  have  been  prescribed  as  essen- 
tial to  dramatic  composition  —  unity  of  time, 
unity  of  place,  and  unity  of  treatment.  The 
authority  for  them  was  derived  from  Aristotle's 
fragmentary  work  on  "Poetics."     Scholars  for 

109 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

a  long  time  assumed  that  they  were  based  upon 
the  example  of  the  great  Athenian  dramatists; 
and  in  consequence  the  French  dramatists, 
Corneille  and  Racine,  planned  the  structure  of 
their  classic  dramas  to  conform  to  them.  Sub- 
sequent criticism,  however,  beginning  with  that 
of  Lessing,  has  demonstrated  that  even  the 
Athenians  did  not  limit  their  freedom  of  design 
by  a  strict  observance  of  such  restrictions. 
Meanwhile,  Shakespeare,  though  probably  he 
had  heard  of  them,  repudiated  them,  and  Eng- 
lish dramatists  have  followed  his  example, 
while  in  France  the  Romantic  movement,  headed 
by  Victor  Hugo,  eventually  disposed  of  them. 
Or  rather,  one  should  say,  of  the  necessity  of 
observing  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  for  the 
unity  of  treatment  is  still  enforced. 

The  object  of  all  three  was  to  increase  the 
sense  of  illusion,  by  simplifying  the  impression 
which  the  audience  was  required  to  accept. 
The  Athenian  stage,  as  we  have  seen,  presented 
no  illusion  of  place.  During  the  several  per- 
formances of  one  day,  it  might  successively 
stand  for  Athens,  Thebes,  Mycense,  or  what 
the  author  wished.  "^Vhere  are  we  now,  my 
dear  Antigone.''"  are  the  opening  words  of  the 

110 


The  Play 

tragedy  of  (Edipus  Coloneus ;  and  to  her  father's 
question,  repeated  a  little  further  on,  she  replies: 
"As  I  have  learned  from  passing  travelers,  not 
far  from  Athens."  To  this  general  information 
is  added  a  few  moments  later  the  particular 
fact.  An  Athenian  tells  the  wanderers  that  it 
is  a  grove  at  the  entrance  to  the  Temple  of  the 
Furies.  Thus  the  audience  is  made  aware  of 
the  locality;  and,  as  there  is  no  change  in  the 
scene,  there  is  nothing  to  interfere  with  the 
impression  aroused  in  their  imaginations.  Simi- 
larly, since  the  play  was  presented  by  daylight 
in  continuous  view  of  the  audience,  it  added 
much  to  the  ease  with  which  they  could  compre- 
hend it,  that  there  should  be  no  change  sug- 
gested from  day  to  night,  nor  any  interruption 
in  the  sequence  of  the  time.  In  fact,  so  far  as 
the  unities  of  time  and  place  were  observed  by 
the  Athenians,  it  was  a  reasonable  concession 
to  the  limitations  which  the  character  of  their 
stage  involved.  The  dramatists  planned  their 
play  structure  in  logical  relation  to  the  necessi- 
ties and  conditions  of  the  site.  By  the  time, 
however,  that  the  French  dramatists  adopted 
these  unities  of  time  and  place,  the  conditions 
of  the  stage  had  changed  and  no  such  necessity 

111 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

existed.  What  had  been  to  the  Athenians  a 
convenience,  they  hardened  into  a  convention; 
and  from  a  reasonable  restraint  evolved  a  rigid 
dogma.  Under  the  spell  of  it  they  erected  some 
noble  dramatic  edifices;  but  the  principle  in- 
volved was  too  narrowly  restricting  to  permit 
an  expansion  of  their  art,  so  as  to  represent 
adequately  the  volume  and  variety  of  life. 

For  life,  whether  of  the  individual  or  of 
humanity,  is  a  matter  of  growth,  needing  time 
for  its  development,  while  change  of  time  may 
bring  in  its  train  a  change  of  scene.  It  takes 
four  seasons  to  complete  a  year,  and  there  are 
many  seasons  in  the  physical  and  mental  life 
of  an  individual.  How  shall  this  development 
from  one  to  another  be  always  capable  of 
presentation  in  a  single  day.^^  Shakespeare 
realized  this.  The  fecundity  of  his  imagination 
created  plots  for  the  unfolding  of  which  time 
and  change  of  scene  were  necessary,  as  they 
were,  too,  for  the  development  of  the  interplays 
of  passion  in  which  he  involved  his  characters. 
Consequently,  though  his  stage  was  as  limited 
in  opportunity  as  the  Athenian,  he  refused  to 
be  bound  by  its  restrictions.  From  the  smaller 
illusion  of  logic  he  appealed  to  the  larger  one 

112 


The  Play 

that  he  depended  upon  his  own  creative  power 
to  induce  in  the  imagination  of  his  audience. 
And  even  to-day,  though  our  imagination  has 
been  dulled  by  the  facilities  which  the  modern 
stage  affords  for  elaborate  and  frequent  changes 
of  painted  scene-illusions,  we  can  follow  one 
of  his  plays  without  aid  of  scenery  and  yield  to 
the  magic  of  his  own  suggestion.  When,  for 
example,  the  Banished  Duke  opens  the  Forest 
scene  in  *'As  You  Like  It":  — 

"  Now,  my  co-mates  and  brothers  in  exile. 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?      Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ?  " 

poor  indeed  must  be  the  imagination  of  the 
spectator,  if  he  need  any  painted  pomp  of  lathe 
and  canvas  to  suggest  the  change  of  scene  from 
the  artificialities  and  intrigues  of  the  court  to 
the  free,  frank,  open  life  of  the  forest. 

But,  if  Shakespeare  were  alive  to-day,  is  it 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  he  would  not  make 
use  of  every  advantage  that  the  modern  stage 
presents?  He  who  drew  so  eagerly  from  any 
source  of  inspiration,  near  or  far,  would  surely 
not  reject  the  opportunities  that  would  now  be 

113 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

lying  ready  to  his  hand.  Changes  of  Scenery 
would  be  made  to  mark  the  changes  of  the 
Scene. 

So  far  then  as  these  two  unities  are  concerned, 
though  dramatists  may  still  resort  to  them,  they 
have  no  validity  as  principles.  Of  the  third 
one,  the  unity  of  treatment,  we  shall  have  much 
to  say  indirectly.  For  it  simply  implies  that  a 
harmony  must  prevail  throughout  the  composi- 
tion of  the  play;  that  the  whole  structure  and  its 
several  parts  should  be  harmoniously  related, 
which  is  practically  the  subject  of  the  remaining 
chapters. 

Having  thus  accounted  for  the  "unities,"  let 
us  return  to  the  divisions  of  the  play.  The 
division  into  acts  and  scenes,  we  have  noted,  is 
not  essential.  It  may  or  may  not  form  part  of 
the  author's  design.  And  here  it  may  be  well 
to  remind  the  reader  that  the  word  scene  is 
used  somewhat  differently  by  French  play- 
wrights. With  them,  as  with  us,  it  signifies  a 
subdivision  of  the  act;  but  with  the  French  this 
does  not  involve  a  change  of  place. 

Following  the  example  of  the  Italian  comedies 
of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  they 
make  the  scene  denote  the  appearance  on  the 

114 


The  Play 

stage  of  another  personage.  Each  fresh  en- 
trance, except  of  servants  or  supernumeraries, 
marks  the  beginning  of  a  new  scene,  which  con- 
tinues until  the  arrival  of  some  other  character 
or  until  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  It  is  an  exceed- 
ingly practical  arrangement  for  the  actor  and 
stage-manager.  The  former  at  once  knows  his 
whereabouts  in  the  play ;  while  during  the  process 
of  rehearsal  it  offers  a  series  of  sign-posts,  by 
which  the  various  stages  of  the  plot  can  be 
immediately  referred  to  or  identified.  More- 
over, since  the  entrance  of  each  character 
enacts,  as  it  were,  the  laying  of  another  course 
of  masonry  in  the  building  up  of  the  play,  this 
division  into  scenes  is  an  assistance  to  our 
comprehension  as  we  read  it.  We  mark  more 
readily  the  successive  evolutions  of  the  plot. 

It  may  be  added  that  the  use  of  scenes,  in 
our  sense  of  the  word  to  represent  a  change  of 
place,  has  been  curtailed  on  the  modern  stage* 
The  old  type  of  comedy,  represented,  for  ex- 
ample, by  Sheridan's  School  for  Scandal,  de- 
manded the  frequent  lowering  of  a  front-cloth, 
painted  to  suggest  a  corridor,  one  side  of  a 
room,  a  street,  a  wood,  or  what  not.  It  was 
dropped  so  far  down  the  stage  that  only  a  strip 

115 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

of  the  latter  intervened  between  it  and  the  foot- 
lights; and  here  the  actors,  few  in  number,  for 
such  scenes  were  only  subsidiary  ones,  strung 
themselves  out  in  line.  They  were  so  near  the 
footlights  that  the  make-up  on  their  faces  was 
unduly  prominent;  so  close  to  the  cloth  that 
the  perspective  of  the  latter  was  ridiculously 
distorted.  Hence  in  every  way  the  illusion  of 
reality  was  impossible.  It  was  in  fact  a  mere 
convention,  tolerated  by  the  audience,  and 
adopted  as  a  convenience  alike  by  the  author 
and  the  stage-manager,  because  it  enabled  the 
former  at  small  expense  to  multiply  his  scenes, 
while  it  often  assisted  the  latter  in  his  manage- 
ment of  the  scenery.  For,  while  the  front  scene 
was  in  progress,  the  cloth  served  as  a  screen 
behind  which  the  carpenters  could  be  setting 
the  stage  for  the  next  act.  Hence,  as  often  as 
not,  the  actors  in  front  would  go  through  their 
parts  to  a  rear  accompaniment  of  hammering, 
shoving,  and  vociferations,  while  the  street  or 
corridor  at  their  backs  swayed  in  the  wind 
which  these  proceedings  aroused.  Not  only 
was  illusion,  as  I  have  said,  banished,  but  the 
scene  was  often  made  ridiculous  or,  at  best, 
run  through  under  circumstances  that,  from  a 

116 


The  Play 

modern  standpoint,  lessened  its  significance. 
And  yet  it  is  under  conditions  of  this  sort  that 
two  of  the  sprightliest  scenes  in  School  for  Scan- 
dal are  enacted,  —  the  two  quarrel  scenes  be- 
tween Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle. 

Even  to-day  we  accept  these  as  we  find  them, 
because  their  method  of  representation  is  an 
inseparable  part  of  the  conventional  character 
of  the  whole  comedy.  The  latter  is  a  jeu  d'esprit 
that  we  do  not  think  of  subjecting  to  the  test  of 
realistic  illusion.  Just  as  we  enjoy  the  polished 
conversation  that  flows  indiscriminately  from 
the  lips  of  all  the  characters,  no  matter  who 
they  are  or  what  their  station  in  life,  so  we 
ignore  the  lack  of  vraisemblance  in  the  stage 
settings.  We  yield  ourselves  agreeably  to  the 
conventionality  of  the  whole  thing.  But  in 
regard  to  a  modern  play  we  have  become  more 
critical. 

The  fact  is  that  the  modern  mind  has  become 
addicted  to  realism.  There  may  be  a  reaction 
in  the  air  —  some  of  us  believe  there  is  — 
nevertheless  up  to  the  present  in  the  drama,  as 
in  fiction  and  painting,  the  test  of  appreciation 
is  truth  to  nature.  We  profess  to  judge  of  an 
actor  or  actress  by  the  degree  to  which  he  or 

117 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

she  portrays  life,  though  with  nine  people  out 
of  ten  it  is  probably  some  idiosyncrasy  in  the 
personality  of  the  man  or  woman  that  attracts. 
Yet  we  fancy  we  like  them  because  "they  are 
so  natural,"  and  demand  a  corresponding 
naturalness  in  the  scene  that  surrounds  them. 
We  are  no  longer  satisfied  to  see  a  forest  descend 
in  the  midst  of  a  drawing-room,  and  to  have 
the  actors  stroll  into  it  by  way  of  the  painted 
curtains  that  adorn  the  proscenium  wings.  Nor 
will  we  accept  for  a  forest  the  obviously-painted 
cloth.  We  demand  the  illusion  that  space  and 
distance  and  the  accompaniment  of  side  vistas 
as  well  as  backgrounds  will  produce.  In  a  word, 
there  must  be  nothing  to  interfere  with  our 
readiness  to  accept  the  whole  thing  as  real. 
Some  people,  as  I  have  already  hinted  in  a  pre- 
vious chapter,  are  too  easily  persuaded;  but  that 
only  goes  to  show  how  eager  they  are  for  the 
illusion  of  reality. 

Recognizing  this,  managers  have  found  their 
interest  in  catering  to  it.  The  simpler  the 
scenery,  the  more  easily  is  it  worked  in  the 
theater  and  transplanted  from  city  to  city,  when 
on  tour.  Thus  the  saving,  effected  in  the 
abolition  of  subsidiary  scenes,  can  be  applied 

118 


The  Play 

to  the  enhancement  of  the  effect  of  the  one  or 
more  set-pieces.  And  in  this  reform  the  scene 
painter  naturally  co-operates  gladly.  Instead 
of  expending  much  time  and  skill  on  what  will 
never  be  seen  to  advantage,  he  can  now  con- 
centrate his  efforts  with  a  better  possibility  of 
really  artistic  results. 

It  is,  no  doubt,  true  that  for  a  long  time  we 
have  accepted  and  enjoyed  the  brilliant  phan- 
tasmagoria of  changing  scenes  with  which 
Sardou  envelopes  his  plots.  But,  though  he  is 
a  master  of  theatric  display  and  avails  himself 
to  the  full  of  every  device  of  ingenious  stage 
carpentry  and  management  to  suggest  illusion, 
the  taste  for  such  lavish  expenditure  of  money 
and  mechanism  has  not  grown  upon  us.  It  may 
still  survive  in  the  case  of  the  popular  melo- 
drama, in  which,  since  the  object  is  to  stir  the 
feelings  of  the  audience  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
unreasoning  emotion,  resort  is  had  to  all  kinds  of 
shocks  and  surprises,  no  matter  how  incongru- 
ous. But  with  audiences  of  average  discrim- 
ination, I  repeat,  both  the  need  and  the  taste 
for  this  multiplication  of  effects  is  falling  into 
abeyance. 

With  the  tendency  to  realism  the  playwright 
119 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

has  kept  pace.  In  a  measure  he  has  led  it. 
For,  originating  with  the  French  dramatist. 
Scribe,  whose  method  was  founded  on  that  of 
MoHere,  the  system  of  play-building  has  be- 
come simplified.  The  structure  no  longer 
straggles  over  a  quantity  of  ground.  It  occu- 
pies a  more  limited  space,  and  is  built  up  story 
by  story,  or  act  by  act,  with  a  closer  inter- 
relationship of  parts,  and  a  more  pronounced 
compactness  of  the  whole.  Its  main  tendency 
is  toward  concentration.  Whether  this  shall 
involve  a  single  act  or  more,  and,  if  the  latter, 
how  many,  is,  as  we  have  noted,  purely  in  the 
discretion  of  the  author.  It  does  not  affect  the 
principle  of  his  design.  On  the  other  hand, 
whatever  the  number  of  his  acts,  their  internal 
mechanism  will  involve  the  fivefold  division  to 
which  we  have  already  alluded.  These,  we 
recall,  are:  1.  Introduction;  2.  Development; 
3.  Climax;  4.  Denouement  or  untying  of  the 
knot;  and  5.  Catastrophe  or  Conclusion.  It  is 
these  that  have  to  be  considered.  But,  possibly, 
before  doing  so,  it  will  be  well  to  discuss  the 
material  which  is  at  the  service  of  the  dramatist. 
Then,  having  noted  this,  we  will  proceed  to 
examine  his  treatment  of  it. 

120 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   MATERIAL    OF   THE   DRAMA 

BEFORE  we  proceed  to  a  study  of  the 
dramatist's  technique,  let  us  inquire  into 
the  material  that  supplies  him  with  his  theme. 
At  the  same  time  it  should  be  clearly  under- 
stood that  this  separation  of  theme  from  tech- 
nique, of  material  from  treatment,  is  unscientific, 
inartistic,  and  only  to  be  justified  by  the  con- 
venience of  study.  For  in  a  true  work  of  art 
the  theme  embodied  and  the  technique  which 
embodies  it  are  inextricably  interwoven,  as  warp 
and  woof.  We  may  unravel  them  for  the  pur- 
pose of  examining  each;  but  in  doing  so  are 
losing  sight  for  the  time  being  of  what  the  artist 
created,  namely,  the  union  of  the  two.  It  is  by 
this  composite  result  that  he  may  fairly  claim 
to  be  judged,  and  not  by  a  separate  examination 
of  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  ingredients. 
It  is  in  this  respect  that  French  criticism  is 
superior   to   the   average   run   of  Anglo-Saxon. 

121 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

We  are  apt  immediately  to  fasten  our  attention 
upon  the  subject  of  the  picture,  or  the  story  of 
the  play,  and  often  so  exclusively  that  we  con- 
demn or  applaud  the  work  of  art  without  any 
subsequent  reference  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  theme  is  represented.  Not  because  we  are 
more  intellectual  than  the  French,  but  because 
it  is  our  habit  to  narrow  our  horizon  to  intellect- 
ual considerations  and  to  make  them  the  sole 
test  of  appreciation.     We  ignore  the  artistic. 

Our  proneness  to  do  so  is  a  heritage  from 
Puritan  ancestors  who  shattered  the  colored 
glory  of  cathedral  windows,  broke  up  the 
organs,  knocked  off  what  they  could  reach  of 
sculptured  ornament  and  tracery,  and  daubed 
the  interior  of  places  of  worship  with  whitewash 
and  plaster.  They  would  worship  solely,  as  they 
expressed  it,  in  spirit  and  in  truth;  which  in  the 
working  out  resulted  in  their  narrowing  the  mys- 
tery of  God  and  the  miracles  of  his  world  to  the 
chop-logic  of  what  they  complacently  called 
reasoning,  and  in  ignoring  the  truth  of  their  own 
natures  and  of  nature  all  about  them;  nature's 
inherent  beauty,  and  human  nature's  complex 
mechanism  of  manifold  sensations.  Beauty  was 
to  them  a  snare,  and  consequently  its  various 

122 


X 
y 

S 

Q 
Si 


O 
U 

O 

s 

CE 

z 


O 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

manifestations,  in  art,  abomination.  To  feel 
the  joy  of  life  was  dangerous,  to  indulge  in  it  a 
sin;  and  men  and  women  tried  to  regulate  their 
lives  as  though  the  sensibilities  and  emotions 
with  which  their  bodies  and  minds  abounded 
were  a  disgrace  and  shame.  No  wonder  that 
they  distrusted  art,  which  in  its  various  forms  is 
the  highest  product  and  expression  of  man's 
capacity  for  sensation. 

Even  to-day  this  distrust  has  not  entirely  dis- 
appeared. Art  in  some  quarters  is  still  regarded 
as  a  weakness,  or  tolerated  only  as  a  necessary 
concession  to  certain  unpractical  weaklings. 
And,  by  the  greater  number  of  those  who  per- 
suade themselves  that  they  respect  it,  it  is  still 
misunderstood.  As  I  have  said  before,  and 
make  no  apology  for  repeating,  they  look  upon 
it  solely  as  a  vehicle  for  intellectual,  moral,  or 
religious  ideas;  that  it  may  and  should  possess 
a  power  of  independent  appeal  to  our  emotions 
is  overlooked.  It  is  as  if  they  saw  in  the  glory 
of  a  crimson  sunset  only  the  promise  of  a  fine 
day  to-morrow  for  their  farming  operations;  no 
present  souree  of  physical  and  spiritual  enjoy- 
ment. 

Yet,  while  I  hope  in  the  next  chapter  to 
123 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

arouse  an  interest  in  the  technique  of  the  drama, 
and  to  pave  the  way  to  a  habit  of  expecting  the 
technique  and  the  theme  to  be  mutually  re- 
inforcing, we  must  not  overlook  the  importance 
of  the  latter.  And  it  is  this  which  we  are  now 
to  consider. 

The  Theme  or  the  material  from  which  the 
dramatist  builds  his  play  is  dug  from  the  quarry 
of  human  life.  In  comparison  with  the  immen- 
sity of  the  source  upon  which  he  draws,  he 
takes  but  a  few  blocks.  He  introduces  them 
to  us  at  the  beginning  of  the  play.  Their  edges 
and  angles  are  irregular,  they  present  con- 
tradictory surfaces;  only  judicious  shaping  or 
the  use  of  intervening  cement  will  make  them 
adhere  to  one  another;  it  is  only  by  calculation 
and  adjustment  that  they  can  be  assembled 
into  a  complete  structure  that  rounds  out  con- 
clusively the  purpose  with  which  the  architect- 
dramatist  started. 

But  enough  of  metaphor;  for  the  blocks  are 
human  beings,  separated  from  the  confusion 
of  their  ordinary  surroundings  and  assembled 
on  a  tiny  microcosm  of  the  world's  stage.  They 
have  been  brought  together  by  the  arbitrary  will 
of  the  dramatist  to  accomplish  or  demonstrate 

124 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

some  phase  of  Hfe  that  he  has  in  mind.  When 
the  conclusion  is  reached,  it  will  represent  in 
epitomized  completeness  the  logical  result  of 
persons,  such  as  these,  being  drawn  together 
in  circumstances  or  situations  such  as  the 
author  has  devised.  But  meanwhile  the  per- 
sons, having  distinct  individualities,  will  not 
immediately,  perhaps  will  never,  coalesce;  they 
will  act  and  react  upon  one  another,  producing 
oppositions  that  time  and  circumstances  may 
either  reconcile  or  confirm.  This  conflict  may 
result  mainly  from  essential  differences  of  char- 
acter and  temperament,  or  mainly  from  the 
circumstances  in  which  the  personages  are  in- 
volved; it  may  assume  a  comical  or  serious 
aspect;  and  in  the  latter  case  may  be  cleared  up 
happily  or  finish  in  disaster.  It  is  the  wit- 
nessing of  this  conflict  that  arouses  the  interest 
of  the  audience;  the  suspense  as  to  the  issue 
that  holds  it  fast,  the  character  of  the  issue  that 
satisfies  or  disappoints  it.  Conflict,  in  fact,  of 
some  kind  is  an  essential  of  dramatic  action. 

Nor  in  the  progress  of  the  conflict  must  the 
audience  be  allowed  to  detect  the  working  of 
the  dramatist.  His  personages  must  not  seem 
like  puppets,  jigged  to  action  by  wires;  they 

125 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

must  impress  us  as  live  reaHties,  acting  and  re- 
acting on  one  another,  working  out  by  themselves 
the  issue  of  the  conflict.  It  may  be  that  their 
actions  are  overshadowed  by  some  influence 
stronger  than  themselves;  as  by  Fate,  for  ex- 
ample, in  the  ancient  tragedies ;  or  by  the  destiny 
of  war,  as  in  some  modern  drama  of  our  struggle 
for  Independence.  But  the  overruling  power 
must  be  clearly  something  projected  on  to  the 
back  of  the  drama  itself;  it  must  be  inherent  in 
the  situations  visibly  and  mentally  presented; 
it  must  not  be  due  to  any  outside  devices  of  the 
author.  Otherwise,  we  shall  regard  it  as 
theatric,  not  dramatic;  not  an  intrinsic  element 
in  the  doing  of  the  action,  but  a  trick  adopted 
by  the  author  arbitrarily. 

Such  was  the  deus  ex  machina,  the  god  from 
the  machine,  frequently  introduced  by  Euripi- 
des. When  the  various  threads  of  his  plot  had 
reached  such  a  moil  that  there  was  no  human 
means  of  disentangling  them,  the  god,  slung  up 
by  a  sort  of  crane,  would  appear  above  the 
proscenium,  and  through  his  simple  say-so 
effect  a  solution  of  the  problem.  Similarly  in 
many  of  the  Miracle  plays,  when  the  author  had 
brought  his  personages  to  a  pass  from  which 

126 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

they  could  not  extricate  themselves,  he  would 
introduce  the  Virgin  Mary  to  effect  a  happy 
ending  out  of  all  their  afflictions.  The  practice 
of  Euripides  was  caricatured  by  Aristophanes, 
and  the  very  term  deus  ex  machina  has  con- 
tinued to  our  own  day  to  signify  a  device,  not 
arising  naturally  out  of  the  given  circumstances, 
but  dragged  in  arbitrarily  from  outside. 

The  drama,  then,  the  action  exhibited  in  the 
doing,  must  involve  a  conflict.  Tradition  and 
practice  are  agreed  on  this  point.  Without  a 
conflict  the  action  is  not  dramatic.  The  clash 
that  the  conflict  presents  may  be  one  of  innu- 
merable varieties.  It  may  be  between  the  in- 
dividual and  Fate,  as  in  the  case  of  (Edipus, 
who  sinned  unwittingly  against  natural  and 
moral  law;  or  between  the  individual  and  cir- 
cumstances, as  in  the  case  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  victims  of  a  family  feud;  or  of  a  man, 
pitied  against  his  own  nature  as  well  as  circum- 
stances, as  was  Hamlet.  Or  the  conflict  may 
be  one  of  individual  wills :  witness  Benedick  and 
Beatrice,  or  Katharine  and  Petruchio ;  or  a  clash 
of  principles  as  between  autocracy  and  democ- 
racy in  Julius  Coesar,  or  as  between  Nora's  and 
her  husband's  conflicting  views  of  marriage  in 

127 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

A  DolVs  House.  It  may  be  a  clash  of  wits,  as 
in  The  Ladies*  Battle;  tragic  in  its  consequences 
as  in  King  Lear,  or  a  stir-about  of  fun  as  in  the 
incongruous  situations  of  the  latest  farcical 
comedy.  These  are  but  more  or  less  suggestive 
examples  of  the  thousand  and  one  forms  that 
the  conflict  may  assume. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  nature  of  the 
conflict  and  the  way  in  which  it  is  developed 
should  be  main  considerations  in  estimating 
the  merit  of  a  play.  The  good  play  is  dis- 
tinguished, as  well  by  the  vital  significance  of 
the  conflict  involved,  as  by  the  consistency  and 
inevitableness  that  mark  its  progress.  By  way 
of  illustration,  let  me  cite  the  case  of  a  play  that 
in  my  opinion  started  out  with  the  promise  of  a 
conflict  of  wide  significance,  which,  however, 
was  not  fulfilled.  Instead  of  adhering  consist- 
ently to  his  original  problem,  the  author  per- 
mitted it  to  dwindle  into  a  different  one  of 
narrower  interest.  This  was  Paid  in  Full,  a 
comedy  by  Eugene  Walter.  The  first  act  in- 
troduces us  to  a  young  married  couple  in  a  small 
city  apartment.  The  husband  is  sweeping  the 
carpet;  the  wife,  washing  the  dishes.  He  is 
discontented,  because  he  feels  that  his  faithful 

128 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

services,  as  collector  for  a  shipping  firm,  are  not 
properly  recognized  by  his  employers.  His 
salary  is  small,  and  he  cannot  give  his  wife  the 
same  advantages  that  she  enjoyed  before  mar- 
riage. Now  here  one  scented  the  suggestion 
of  two  possible  conflicts,  both  of  sociological 
importance.  The  one  that  seemed  uppermost 
was  rebellion  against  the  uneven  distribution 
of  profits.  If  so,  it  was  an  echo  of  that  spirit 
of  unrest  over  economic  conditions  that  is 
stirring  far  and  wide  in  the  community.  It 
involved  a  clash  between  Capital  and  Labor 
that  was  timely  and  vital.  On  the  other  hand, 
though  not  so  evidently,  the  conflict  might  be 
one  between  Necessity  and  Desire;  the  problem 
that  so  many  young  married  people  have  to 
face  of  being  compelled  to  forego  the  pleasures 
they  were  able  to  enjoy  in  their  single  state; 
how  to  convert  the  loss  into  a  gain  and  eventually 
win  out  to  a  position  of  greater  economic  free- 
dom. This,  also,  would  have  been  a  conflict 
of  wide  and  stirring  interest.  But  of  both  of 
these  the  author  loosened  his  hold  before  the 
act  was  finished.  Just  before  the  fall  of  the 
curtain  he  makes  his  hero  embezzle.  Instantly 
a  new  problem  is  created.     It  is  no  longer  a 

129 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

conflict  on  broad  issues  and  general  principles; 
it  is  narrowed  down  to  one  of  personal  dis- 
honesty, arrayed  against  inevitable  detection 
and  disgrace.  Our  sympathies  are  immediately 
withdrawn  from  the  young  man;  and  the  author, 
recognizing  this,  sets  to  work  to  ensure  our 
utter  detestation  of  him.  He  is  shown  to  be  an 
arrant  cur,  whose  rapid  descent  into  baseness 
is  squalidly  ignoble.  Meanwhile  the  author  has 
devised  for  us  a  big,  particular  shock.  The 
president  of  the  company  is  an  old  sea-captain, 
supposed  to  be  brutalized  by  contact  with 
savages  and  to  be  unscrupulously  amorous.  To 
this  ogre  the  cur-husband  proposes  to  sacrifice 
his  wife's  honor  in  order  to  save  his  own  wretched 
carcase  from  the  penitentiary.  She,  actuated 
by  motives  not  explained,  accepts  the  insult 
and  repairs  to  the  ogre's  den.  Here  is  the 
shock;  followed,  however,  by  a  surprise,  for  the 
ogre  turns  out  to  be  a  bluff  but  kindly  old 
gentleman,  who  respects  her  misery,  and  for 
her  sake  gives  the  husband  a  receipt  for  the 
money  stolen  and  his  dismissal.  The  cur,  re- 
lieved from  apprehension,  makes  overtures  of 
affection  to  his  wife.  Rejecting  them  with 
loathing,   she   very   properly   leaves   him.     Pre- 

130 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

sumably  it  is  she  who  has  "paid  in  full."  But 
there  was  nothing  in  the  first  act,  nor  for  that 
matter  in  the  second,  to  suggest  that  the  con- 
flict was  to  be  waged  around  the  wife's  sacrifice 
for  her  husband.  This  was  an  after-growth, 
for  which  no  seed  had  been  sown  in  the  early 
part  of  the  play.  Yet  the  episode  which  it  in- 
volved between  the  wife  and  the  sea-captain 
was  so  strongly  conceived  and  represented, 
that  it  aroused  the  interest  of  the  audience  and 
assured  a  run  for  the  play.  The  latter,  indeed, 
demonstrated  that  the  author  has  exceptional 
dramatic  ability,  but  at  the  same  time  that  he 
has  a  great  deal  to  learn  regarding  the  tech- 
nique of  play-building.  His  play  resembled  a 
house  that  has  resulted  from  gradual  additions, 
adapted  to  the  changing  conditions  of  the 
family.  It  was  not  the  product  of  a  clearly 
conceived  design,  consistently  adhered  to. 

Having  noted  that  the  material  which  the 
dramatist  employs  must  involve  a  conflict,  it 
remains  to  study  some  other  questions,  affect- 
ing its  solution.  In  order  to  appeal  successfully 
to  the  interest  and  sympathy  of  his  audience, 
the  dramatist  must  choose  material  that  directly 
or   indirectly  touches   ordinary  human  experi- 

131 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ence.  Nor  does  this  imply  undue  restrictions. 
His  personages  may  be  of  a  race  or  condition 
foreign  to  those  of  the  audience;  they  may  be 
demi-gods,  or  kings,  or  heroes;  they  may  belong 
to  other  countries  or  a  bygone  age;  they  may 
even  be  creatures  of  the  imagination;  and  the 
conflict  in  which  they  are  involved  may  em- 
brace passions  or  circumstances  far  removed 
from  the  ordinary  lot  of  humanity.  Neverthe- 
less, in  the  final  analysis  of  their  motives  and 
conduct  and  of  the  end  to  which  they  come, 
we  should  be  able  to  apply  the  test  of  common 
human  experience.  In  witnessing,  for  example, 
the  tragedy  of  Othello,  some  of  the  audience 
may  follow  the  action  of  the  piece  with  a  keen 
sense  of  its  personal  reference  to  their  own  ex- 
perience. They  have  been  the  victims  of  a 
similar  passion  of  jealousy,  warranted  or  un- 
warranted; and  every  phase  of  the  conflict  they 
will  tick  off  on  the  tablet  of  their  own  memory, 
and  according  to  the  quality  of  their  tempera- 
ment and  its  capacity  for  suspicion  or  con- 
fidence, revenge  or  forgiveness,  will  condemn 
or  condone  the  hero. 

The   majority,   however,  will  view  the   con- 
flict in  an  impersonal  way  and  test  the  motives, 

132 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

conduct,  and  conclusion  by  a  general  reference 
to  their  experience.  While  there  is  no  question 
of  imagining  themselves  in  Othello's  case  and  of 
estimating  his  behavior  by  what  they  would 
themselves  do,  if  similarly  placed,  they  should 
be  made  to  realize  that,  given  a  man  of  Othello's 
pride  and  sense  of  duty,  and  taking  into  con- 
sideration his  racial  heat  of  blood,  the  temper 
of  his  times,  and  the  nature  of  the  deceit  prac- 
tised upon  him  by  lago,  his  yielding  to  suspicion 
was  probable  and  his  act  of  revenge  to  be  ex- 
pected. If  he  is  to  have  our  sympathy  and  pity 
and  not  only  to  be  condemned,  we  should  be 
satisfied  that  his  fight  against  suspicion  was 
sufficient  to  clear  him  of  a  weakness  of  character. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  at  any  point  in  the  conflict 
we  are  not  convinced  of  the  reasonableness  of 
his  conduct,  as  judged  upon  general  principles 
of  experience  in  relation  to  his  particular  case, 
then,  at  least  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  there 
is  a  flaw  in  the  logic  of  the  drama.  The  proba- 
bilities have  been  outraged  and  for  us  the  play 
is  not  satisfyingly  dramatic;  for  the  author  has 
invented  situations  or  conclusions  that,  while  they 
may  be  effective  theatrically,  are  dramatically  un- 
sound, because  opposed  to  the  experience  of  life. 

133 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

We  should  recognize,  however,  that  what  we 
take  to  be  an  inconsistency  with  truth  to  Hfe 
may  really  involve  a  truth  that  hitherto  had 
escaped  us.  It  may  represent  a  phase  of  life 
which  we  have  never  looked  closely  in  the  face 
or  thought  out  to  a  clear  conclusion.  Especially 
in  these  days,  when  the  material  of  the  drama 
has  become  more  particularized,  and  plots 
have  become  simpler,  but  the  interplay  of 
motive  and  conduct  more  subtly  analyzed,  we 
should  beware  of  hasty  criticism.  In  ordinary 
life  we  are  apt  to  be  governed  by  tradition  and 
habit  and  to  act  on  impulse;  seldom  do  we 
reason  out  our  conduct  in  advance;  and,  even 
when  we  do,  are  liable  to  be  biassed  by  social 
conventions  and  our  individual  temperament. 
But  the  latter  may  be  an  untrustworthy  guide 
and  the  former  may  have  outlived  their  useful- 
ness. A  new  play  may  arrive  which  throws 
down  a  challenge  to  both. 

It  was  so  that  Ibsen's  A  DolVs  House  startled 
the  world.  It  questioned  the  sanctity  of  the 
convention  —  or  as  some  would  call  it  the 
supreme  law  —  that  marriage  sanctifies  even 
an  unnatural  and  an  unworthy  alliance;  and  it 
raised  a  new  question  of  individualism:  has  not 

134 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

a  woman  the  right,  is  it  not  her  duty,  to  de- 
velop her  mental  and  spiritual  ego  to  its  highest 
capacity?  Very  naturally  it  shocked  the  feel- 
ings of  people  —  and  they  were  the  vast  ma- 
jority —  who  were  accustomed  to  accept  the 
convention  as  an  unquestionable  rule  of  con- 
duct, and  still,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  to 
regard  a  wife  in  the  old  light  of  being  a  part  of 
her  husband's  goods  and  chattels.  Nora,  it  is 
true,  had  been  treated  as  a  doll,  first  by  her 
father,  later  by  her  husband.  Even  when  she 
had  become  the  mother  of  his  children,  the 
husband  looked  upon  her  as  his  plaything, 
doing  naught  to  help  her  to  a  realization  of  her 
womanhood.  When  she  was  rudely  awakened 
to  it  by  the  shock  that  unwittingly  she  had  put 
herself  within  the  grasp  of  the  law,  and  this 
fact  was  discovered  by  her  husband,  his  solici- 
tude was  not  for  her,  but  over  the  impending 
disgrace  to  himself.  When,  moreover,  the 
shadow  of  this  had  been  removed,  still  his 
thought  was  not  of  her  mental  and  spiritual 
welfare  but  of  his  own  physical  pleasure.  Was 
it  therefore  surprising  that  Nora,  in  her  newly 
aroused  sense  of  womanhood  and  in  her  hunger 
to  develop  it,  should  realize  that  her  husband 

135 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

could  not  help  her;  that  in  the  absence  of  any 
spiritual  bond  between  them  their  merely  physi- 
cal association  was  unnatural  and  unholy;  that, 
in  a  word,  she  must  not  continue  to  live  with  a 
"strange  man,"  but  must  get  away  by  herself 
and  work  out  in  her  own  strength  this  new 
problem  of  her  womanhood  ?  She  had  children 
—  yes;  but  her  husband  had  told  her  that  one 
who  had  acted  as  he  subsequently  found  she 
had,  was  unfit  to  bring  up  children.  He,  how- 
ever, had  forgotten  or  was  ready  to  ignore  his 
own  words.  She  could  do  neither;  so  she  left 
his  house. 

It  was  this  leaving  home  that  outraged  the 
public.  It  was  so  deliberate  a  violation  of  the 
conventions  of  marriage;  so  revolutionary  a 
suggestion  that  marriage  under  certain  circum- 
stances was  a  form  of  sex-slavery,  from  which, 
out  of  reverence  for  her  body,  as  well  as  for  the 
needs  of  her  mental  and  spiritual  development, 
a  woman  was  justified  in  freeing  herself.  What- 
ever may  be  your  opinion  to-day  and  mine  on 
this  question,  we  must  remember  that  over 
twenty  years  have  elapsed  since  the  appearance 
of  this  play  and  much  has  happened  in  the 
meantime  to  affect  our  judgment.     The  point 

136 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

to  try  and  face  is:  what  would  have  been  your 
attitude  of  mind,  if  you  had  been  present,  as  I 
was,  at  one  of  the  earliest  performances  of 
what  was  then  a  new  play? 

It  would,  or  should,  have  raised  two  im- 
portant questions;  a  particular,  and  a  general 
one.  In  the  first  place,  has  the  author  made 
out  his  own  case;  secondly,  is  his  conclusion  on 
so  vital  a  matter  one  that  commends  itself  to  our 
moral  judgment?  We  regard  the  first  question 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  play  itself;  the 
second  from  that  of  the  community.  Firstly, 
then,  if  we  grant  for  the  sake  of  argument  the 
author's  contention  that  under  such  and  such 
circumstances  a  separation,  either  temporary 
or  permanent,  is  justifiable,  has  he  represented 
the  circumstances  as  logically  leading  to  the 
conclusion?  And  again,  is  Nora,  as  he  repre- 
sents her,  the  kind  of  person  who  under  these 
given  conditions  would  be  likely  to  have  acted 
as  she  has  been  made  to  do?  Does  the  intro- 
duction of  the  play  present  in  her  character 
suflScient  indications  of  the  possibility  of  so 
radical  a  change  of  heart  and  mind  ?  Are  the 
situations  which  conduce  to  it  such  as  might 
reasonably  produce  the  change  in  so  short  a 

137 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

time?  Would  a  "squirrel,"  like  Nora,  change 
so  decisively,  that  a  step,  as  resolute  and  self- 
asserting  as  the  final  one,  might  be  probable, 
or  at  least  possible  ? 

To  have  raised  these  and  similar  questions 
regarding  the  inherent  probabilities  of  the  play 
would  have  been  to  adopt  the  attitude,  to  which 
every  serious  play  is  entitled,  of  being  first  of  all 
judged  on  its  own  merits  as  a  representation  of 
human  life.  Judged  by  its  own  standpoint  of 
intention,  is  the  play  self-sufficient?  The  same 
inquiry  is  in  order  to-day;  and  people,  quite 
apart  from  ethical  considerations,  will  have 
their  own  opinions  as  to  whether  or  not  the 
logic  of  this  particular  play  is  sound. 

This  being  settled,  either  pro  or  con,  the 
further  question  arises:  is  the  conclusion  in 
accordance  with  or  opposed  to  our  sense  of 
morality?  I  know  that  some  people  will  object 
to  thus  raising  the  issue  of  morality.  They 
will  argue  that,  since  we  set  out  to  examine  the 
drama  in  its  character  of  a  work  of  art,  the 
question  of  morality  is  beside  the  point.  For, 
as  they  affirm,  there  is  no  internal  relationship 
between  morality  and  art. 

Certainly  there  need  not  be.  Art  in  its  vari- 
138 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

ous  forms  is  the  product  and  the  expression  of 
men's  feehng  for  beauty;  and  a  work  of  art  may 
be  as  free  of  the  alloy  of  morals  as  is  the  beauty 
of  nature  itself.  Perhaps  it  shows  best  and 
purest  when  it  is,  notwithstanding  Ruskin's 
dictum  that  the  highest  type  of  art  is  that 
which  is  in  the  service  of  religion.  But  the 
abstract  expression  of  beauty  is  only  possible 
to  the  drama  in  a  very  limited  degree.  Now 
and  then  may  appear  a  creation  of  pure  fancy, 
such  as  Peter  Pariy  in  which  there  is  no  possible 
suggestion  of  morality;  but  in  almost  every  case 
the  material  of  the  drama  is  directly  concerned 
with  the  motives  and  conduct  of  human  beings. 
It  can  with  difficulty,  therefore,  escape  the  im- 
plication of  moral  issues,  unless  we  are  prepared 
to  admit  that  men  and  women  may  divest 
themselves  of  moral  responsibility. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  just  this  admission 
that  we  are  requested  to  make  in  the  case  of 
the  great  majority  of  farcical  comedies.  The 
innumerable  plots,  though  ingeniously  different 
in  details,  are  wont  to  have  a  general  agreement; 
they  are  based  on  some  infraction  of  the  moral 
code,  either  real  or  apparent,  and  the  action 
resolves  itself  into  the  effort  to  escape  detection 

139 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

and  its  consequences  by  every  conceivable 
and  inconceivable  kind  of  lying  and  chicanery. 
They  are  as  utterly  immoral  as  that  time- 
honored  farce-tragedy.  Punch  and  Judy,  or  as 
those  games  of  our  childhood  in  which  we  way- 
laid, robbed,  and  murdered  one  another,  and 
carried  off  our  sisters  to  languish  in  solitary 
confinement  in  the  wood-shed.  Looking  back 
however,  to  those  sportive  crimes,  we  see  them 
to  have  been  not  immoral,  but  unmoral.  We 
were  only  playing  at  being  bad,  and  I  don't 
think  were  any  the  worse  in  consequence. 

Is  it  not  much  the  same  with  these  farce- 
comedies.^  They  are  the  adult's  way  of  play- 
ing at  being  bad.  An  adult,  it  is  true,  might 
be  better  employed;  he  might,  for  example,  be 
improving  his  mind.  But,  if  we  are  wise,  we 
shall  give  our  minds  a  rest  now  and  then  and 
indulge  in  foolish  recreation.  Yes,  we  will 
even  indulge  in  the  childish  sport  of  making 
believe  we  are  wicked.  In  which  case,  if  we 
are  of  average  mental  healthiness,  we  shall  have 
no  thought  of  moral  or  immoral.  The  question 
of  morality  will  not  intervene;  our  attitude  of 
mind  is  simply  unmoral;  we  view  the  play  solely 
as    an    ingenious    intrigue    of    escapades    and 

140 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

drollery.  That  is  to  say,  if  the  author  has  been 
as  clean-minded  as  ourselves,  and  has  invented 
the  game  in  a  spirit  as  unmoral  as  a  child's. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  allowed  an  im- 
moral suggestion  to  enter  into  his  own  mind,  is 
himself  conscious  of  the  wickedness  of  what 
he  is  engaged  in  and  by  word  or  act  conveys  the 
consciousness  and  suggestion  to  his  audience, 
he  is  going  beyond  the  bounds  of  decency  and 
his  play  should  be  condemned. 

But,  it  will  be  urged,  who  is  to  be  the  judge 
of  this.'^  Will  not  one  person's  sense  of  decency 
be  outraged  sooner  than  another's?  It  is  true; 
and  perhaps  the  only  answer  to  this  objection 
is  that  those  with  a  highly  impressionable  sense 
of  decency,  which  frequently  is  nothing  more 
than  a  deficiency  in  the  sense  of  make-believe 
and  a  temperamental  inability  to  look  at  any 
subject  except  in  relation  to  reality,  had  better 
stay  away  from  the  average  farce-comedy. 
But  let  them  be  very  careful  how  they  try  to 
influence  others  to  stay  away  by  raising  the  cry 
of  immorality.  To  do  so  will  only  defeat  their 
good  intentions.  It  will  stir  a  desire  in  many 
people,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  indif- 
ferent to  the  piece,  to  go  and  see  it,  and  will 

141 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ensure  that  their  condition  of  mind  as  they 
witness  it  will  be  entirely  immoral.  They  will 
then  go  to  the  play  with  an  unclean  curiosity  and 
watch  out  for  suggestions  of  pruriency.  Even 
if  they  do  not  find  them,  as  possibly  they  will 
not,  they  will  have  suffered  some  contamina- 
tion; not,  however,  so  much  by  contact  with  the 
play  as  with  the  suggestion  of  its  well-intentioned 
censors. 

It  is  the  recognition  of  this  that  makes,  or 
should  make,  a  critic  so  chary  of  condemning  a 
play  on  the  score  of  immorality.  Probably  his 
wisest  course,  if  he  sincerely  desires  to  deter 
people  from  seeing  it,  is  to  treat  it  with  a  stony 
neglect.  But  this  book  is  not  meant  for  critics, 
who,  after  all,  are  only  the  advance  posts  of 
criticism.  The  real  judgment  of  a  play  rests 
with  the  public.  But,  you  will  ask,  if  this  is  so, 
is  it  not  the  duty  of  the  critic  to  warn  them,  and 
the  duty  also  of  the  public  who  have  seen  the 
play  to  testify  their  disapproval;  and  will  not 
this  stir  up  the  unwholesome  interest  that  a 
moment  ago  we  depreciated.^  Thus  the  deeper 
we  look  into  the  matter,  the  more  difficult  does 
it  seem  to  be.  But  the  difficulty,  I  believe,  is 
largely  due  to  a  wrong  way  of  approaching  the 

142 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

subject.  It  is  usually  understood  that  some- 
thing should  be  done  by  somebody  to  protect 
the  public  against  the  contamination  of  plays 
which  exceed  the  bounds  of  decency.  But  what 
if  the  public  should  protect  itself.?  Yes,  and 
that  younger  portion  of  it,  which  constitutes 
the  majority  of  audiences,  —  is  it  everlastingly 
to  be  treated  as  if  it  could  not  be  trusted? 
Cannot  it  be  encouraged  to  protect  itself  ?  The 
only  censorship  that  will  ejffectively  prevent  or 
kill  objectionable  plays  is  starvation  in  the 
box  oflBce.  The  issue,  therefore,  rests  with  the 
public ;  and  why  should  not  the  latter,  young  and 
old  alike,  recognize  and  shoulder  the  respon- 
sibility.?  By  the  time  that  a  preponderating 
majority  of  the  public  regards  it  as  a  squalid 
thing  to  witness  a  play  of  evil  suggestion;  and 
that  men  and  women  are  mutually  soiling  them- 
selves and  losing  each  other's  respect  by  sharing 
in  the  dirty  business,  the  diflSculty  will  have 
been  solved.  Then,  and  not  till  then.  If  it 
cannot  be  solved  this  way,  it  is  insoluble. 

Granting  this,  how  can  one  form  for  oneself 
a  standard  of  criticism  for  this  kind  of  play.? 
I  repeat,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  wholesome 
attitude  is  to  recognize  that  certain  plays  may 

143 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

be  written  and  enjoyed  in  that  child-spirit  of 
make-beheve  that  is  neither  moral  nor  immoral, 
but  absolutely  non-moral.  That  under  these 
circumstances  topics  which,  if  they  were  seri- 
ously considered,  would  be  distressing  and  least 
capable  of  exciting  laughter  may  be  legitimately 
subjects  of  humorous  treatment.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  author  descends  from  the  at- 
mosphere of  abstract  suggestion  to  acts  and 
words  of  concrete  suggestiveness,  his  play  is  no 
longer  entitled  to  the  sanction  that  is  permitted 
to  a  work  of  art.  We  recognize  and  repudiate 
it  as  an  exploitation  of  what  is  gross. 

When,  however,  we  are  confronted  with  a 
serious  drama,  the  question  of  morality  assumes 
a  different  aspect.  There  are,  firstly,  the  two 
broad  distinctions:  the  author  has  selected  a 
theme  that  involves  an  infraction  of  the  moral 
code,  but  with  what  purpose?  Is  it  with  the 
wanton  purpose  of  causing  a  sensation  or  with 
the  honest  one  of  grappling  seriously  with  some 
vital  problem  of  social  life.  It  should  be  our 
effort  to  detect  the  sincerity  or  insincerity  of  his 
motive.  Thus  to  refer  again  to  Paid  in  Full. 
Is  the  third  act,  in  which  the  wife  at  her  hus- 
band's instigation  visits   the   man  whom   they 

144 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

both  beheve  to  be  a  libertine,  an  example  of 
sincerity  or  insincerity?  Has  it  any  elements 
of  being  a  typical  case  ?  Typical  in  a  general 
way  of  the  supreme  sacrifices  which  many  a 
good  wife  makes  for  a  bad  husband?  In  the 
play  itself  is  there  any  antecedent  probability 
that  the  husband,  cur  though  he  is,  would  sink 
to  such  meanness;  that  the  wife  would  or  should 
submit  to  such  an  outrage?  And  again,  has 
the  conclusion  of  the  scene  any  bearing  what- 
ever on  the  moral  issues  involved  ?  Does  it 
claim  to  be,  or,  in  effect,  is  it,  the  solution  of  any 
moral  problem  whatsoever?  Is  it  not  rather  a 
situation  that  does  not  grow  out  of  the  action 
dramatically,  but  has  been  thrust  into  it;  a 
theatrical  device,  involving  a  question  of  morals, 
but  not  treated  as  a  moral  problem;  introduced 
simply  as  a  telling  episode  that  was  bound  to 
make  a  sensation? 

I  leave  the  answer  to  my  readers:  but  before 
you  decide  compare  the,  at  first  sight,  similar 
episode  in  Maeterlinck's  Monna  Vanna.  There, 
you  will  remember,  the  wife  visits  at  night  the 
tent  of  her  husband's  antagonist.  But  it  is  at 
the  latter's  demand;  against  her  husband's 
wishes  and  to  save  the  lives  and  homes  of  the 

145 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

beleaguered  citizens.  From  the  very  rise  of 
the  curtain  the  issue  is  plain:  the  sack  of  the 
city  is  imminent;  and  out  of  this  the  problem 
develops:  to  avert  the  horror,  since  there  is 
no  other  way,  shall  a  wife  sacrifice  her  own  and 
her  husband's  honor;  may  not  the  dishonor, 
like  martyrdom,  bear  its  own  crown  of  glory? 
The  problem  solves  itself:  the  shining  purity  of 
the  woman's  honor  brings  her  through  the 
ordeal  unscathed;  she  leads  captivity  captive. 
But  then  comes  the  finale;  the  hostile  general 
could  respect  her  honor,  but  her  own  husband 
cannot  believe  in  it.  He  thrusts  her  from  him. 
It  is  made  plain  to  us  that  he  was  never  fit  to 
be  her  soul-mate;  that  his  sense  of  honor  by  the 
side  of  hers  was  as  a  walled-in  garden,  lying  at 
the  foot  of  a  mountain,  whose  snowy  summit 
defies  pollution  and  incites  mankind  to  a  wor- 
ship of  its  purity.  Treated,  as  it  has  been  by 
Maeterlinck,  in  a  spirit  of  exquisite  reverence, 
the  theme  is  no  longer  a  particular  episode. 
It  has  become  the  symbol  of  a  higher  concep- 
tion of  the  beauty  and  the  power  of  purity. 

In  a  general  way,  then,  when  an  author 
raises  a  moral  issue,  we  shall  test  his  sincerity 
by  some  such  question  as  the  following:  Has  he 

146 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

convinced  us  that  he  himself  considered  the 
issue  to  be  of  vital  importance  as  a  social  prob- 
lem; has  he  approached  it  with  a  single-minded 
intention  of  facing  the  problem  in  its  bearing 
on  society?  Has  he  worked  it  out  to  a  conclu- 
sion that  is  consistent  with  his  intention  and 
with  what  he  conceives  to  be  its  importance  ? 
If  we  cannot  answer  these  questions  in  the 
aflBrmative,  the  play,  so  far  as  we  are  con- 
cerned, will  be  suspected  of  being  theatric 
rather  than  dramatic.  That  is  to  say,  in  the 
sense  in  which  we  have  ventured  to  distinguish 
these  two  words,  the  moral  issue  has  been  used 
as  a  stirring  device  for  creating  stage  effective- 
ness and  not  as  a  contribution  to  the  serious 
criticism  of  some  vital  phase  of  life. 

Bring,  for  example,  this  test  to  bear  upon 
Pinero's  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  and  Suder- 
mann's  Magda.  The  heroine  in  each  case  is  a 
woman  with  a  past;  and  the  problem  involved 
is  the  consequences  of  this  fact  to  herself  and 
others.  As  Pinero  raises  the  issue,  she  has 
been  the  mistress  of  many  men  before  she 
marries  a  widower  with  a  grown-up  daughter. 
He  is  ostracized  by  society,  and  the  pair  retire 
to  the  country,  where  the  wife  is  oppressed  with 

147 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ennui  and  jealous  of  her  husband's  affection 
for  his  daughter.  He  fears  her  influence  upon 
his  daughter  and  sends  the  latter  away.  The 
girl  falls  in  love  with  an  oflScer;  and  her  choice 
seems  an  admirable  one,  until  it  is  discovered 
that  her  fiance  has  been  one  of  her  step-mother's 
lovers.  The  woman,  haunted  by  her  past  and 
feeling  that  its  taint  pollutes  the  happiness  of 
others,  shoots  herself.  The  author,  having 
raised  the  issue,  pursues  it  with  remorseless 
logic  and  represents  the  successive  develop- 
ments with  a  skill  of  play-craft  that  ensures  its 
stage  effectiveness.  In  fact  it  is  one  of  those 
plays  that  are  known  as  "actor-proof."  Its 
effect  may,  of  course,  be  improved  by  the  in- 
dividual qualities  of  the  acting,  but  it  is  not 
dependent  upon  them;  it  practically  plays  it- 
self. So  much  for  the  author's  treatment  of 
the  issue;  but  what  of  the  issue  itself.?  No 
doubt  it  represents  a  slice  of  life,  but  has  it  any 
of  that  wide  application  to  actual  social  condi- 
tions that  give  it  the  significance  of  a  type  ?  Is 
it  not  rather,  as  conceived  by  the  author,  excep- 
tional and  individual .?  He  himself  seems  to 
have  been  conscious  that  his  theme  might  be 
thus  criticised,  for  toward  the  end  of  the  play  he 

148 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

makes  the  husband  exclaim,  that  all  the  misery 
has  come  about  through  men  leading  what  they 
condone  as  **a  man's  life."  But  this  was  an 
afterthought.  It  did  not  enter  into  the  original 
conception.  Had  it  done  so,  our  attention 
would  have  been  directed  upon  an  abstract 
problem  of  very  large  and  vital  significance. 
Is  there,  on  the  other  hand,  in  Magda,  any  sug- 
gestion of  a  larger  issue  ? 

Magda  returns  to  the  home  of  her  girlhood. 
Years  ago  she  had  been  driven  out  of  it  by  the 
tyranny  of  her  father,  a  domestic  martinet  who 
regards  the  keeping  of  the  women  folk  in  a 
position  of  dependence  as  a  solemn  principle 
of  home  life.  She  is  now  a  famous  opera  singer, 
but  only  after  years  of  struggle.  During  these 
she  had  known  a  student,  who,  however,  deserted 
her  to  face  motherhood  alone.  Returning  to  her 
home,  she  finds  this  former  lover  a  highly  con- 
sidered friend  of  her  father's  family.  This  adds 
complication  to  her  relations  with  the  latter; 
but  the  main  point  is  that  she  is  a  woman  with 
an  independent  will  and  the  courage  to  exert  it 
and  to  abide  by  the  consequences.  She  is -in 
revolt  against  that  sacrifice  of  womanhood 
which  a  false  ideal  of  the  home  life  entails.   Her 

149 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

spirit  is  too  free,  too  eager  to  touch  life  at  many 
points,  too  restlessly  conscious  of  power  in  itself, 
to  brook  the  small  and  narrow  surroundings  in 
which  convention  would  have  kept  her  im- 
prisoned. From  the  first,  this,  without  going 
into  particulars  of  the  play,  is  the  issue  raised 
by  Sudermann;  and  one  must  feel  that  it  is  an 
issue  of  very  wide  application  and  vital  signifi- 
cance. 

So  much  for  the  first  consideration  that  con- 
fronts us  in  a  serious  play,  dealing  with  a  moral 
issue:  how  far,  in  fact,  the  character  of  the 
issue  is  theatrical  or  dramatic;  with  what  degree 
of  sincerity  or  insincerity  the  author  has  pro- 
pounded it.  Secondly,  we  have  to  consider  the 
character  of  the  conclusion  at  which  he  arrives. 
That  it  is  a  logical  conclusion,  naturally  de- 
veloped from  the  theme  selected,  is  not  enough. 
The  author  has  raised  a  moral  issue,  and  must 
be  judged  by  moral  considerations.  Is  his  con- 
clusion in  accordance  with  the  sanctions  of 
morality.?^  It  is  in  regard  to  this  question  that 
I  am  confident  we  should  be  cautious  of  a  hasty 
decision. 

Society,  if  it  is  to  endure  in  a  healthy  form, 
must   be   based   upon   morality.     But   what   is 

150 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

morality?  Is  it  something  that  society  every- 
where recognizes  as  the  same  thing  and  of  the 
same  value,  as  all  men  do  in  the  case  of  a  lump 
of  gold  ?  Does  not  its  standard  vary  in  different 
parts  of  the  world ;  so  that,  for  example,  in  some 
cases,  as  a  preparation  for  marriage,  young  men 
and  women  are  not  allowed  alone  in  each  other's 
company,  whilst  elsewhere  they  are  encouraged 
to  freedom  of  intercourse?  Is  it  not  a  fact 
that  morality  in  its  final  analysis  is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  the  standards  of  right  think- 
ing and  conduct  which  communities  have  agreed 
upon?  They  are  standards  sanctified,  as  the 
words  moral  and  morality  imply,  by  custom. 
But  may  not  customs  change  ?  Is  it  not  a  fact 
that  they  do?  Will  any  one  maintain  that  our 
standards  of  morality  are  the  same  as  those  up- 
held in  the  Middle  Ages?  We  believe  them 
better;  but  for  that  reason  are  they  incapable 
of  further  betterment  ?  In  a  word,  an  author's 
conclusion,  as  was  Ibsen's  in  A  DolVs  House, 
may  seem  at  variance  with  morality.  True,  it 
ran  counter  to  what  was  at  the  time  of  its  appear- 
ance the  customary  standard  regarding  the  sanc- 
tity of  marriage.  But  did  that  make  it  immoral  ? 
Yes,  a  thousand  times  yes,  was  the  immediate  reply. 

151 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Well,  since  that  date  men  and  women  have 
done  a  power  of  thinking,  urged  thereto  by 
Ibsen.  He  had  dared  to  look  facts  in  the  face 
and  judge  them  by  a  higher  standard  than  that 
born  of  the  morality  of  his  day;  and  he  pointed 
out,  what  thousands  of  men  and  women  now 
believe,  that  under  certain  circumstances  mar- 
riage itself  may  be  immoral;  that,  where  mutual 
respect  and  the  unity  of  soul  have  ceased  to 
exist,  separation  may  be  the  more  moral  course 
of  conduct.  Moreover,  his  play,  apart  from 
the  specific  point  of  its  conclusion,  contributed 
largely  to  that  freer  and  franker  discussion  of 
the  relations  of  the  sexes  that  has  marked  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century,  with  the  result  that 
men  to-day  have  a  more  worthy  respect  for 
women,  and  women  more  respect  for  themselves 
and  more  realization  of  their  responsibilities 
and  possibilities. 

Not  even  yet,  however,  is  the  end  in  sight. 
Innumerable  adjustments  must  still  be  made 
between  the  sexes,  before  each  in  mutual  equal- 
ity can  round  out  its  perfect  self.  In  this 
progress  the  drama  must  play  its  part.  It 
should  be  a  big  one,  for  there  is  no  other  in- 
fluence so  potent.     Let  us  not,  then,  from  any 

152 


The  Material  of  the  Drama 

false  notions  of  modesty,  frown  upon  the  play- 
wright who  selects  the  sex  question  for  his 
theme.  There  are  others,  it  is  true,  of  vital 
importance;  but  none  more  vital,  since  it  pene- 
trates to  the  very  source  of  human  life.  Only 
let  us  insist  that  each  problem  shall  be  ap- 
proached with  sincerity  and  developed  with 
single-minded  intention  of  facing  facts  and 
reaching  a  just  conclusion.  Lastly,  before  we 
condemn  the  conclusion,  let  us  be  sure  we  have 
faced  the  facts  as  closely  and  as  clearly  as  the 
author. 


153 


CHAPTER  VII 

GENESIS   OF   A   PLOT 

OUT  of  the  innumerable  plays,  submitted 
to  managers,  we  are  told  that  very  few 
exhibit  any  knowledge  of  play  construction. 
An  even  greater  ignorance  on  this  subject 
probably  distinguishes  an  average  audience; 
interfering  considerably  with  its  appreciation 
of  the  drama.  For,  while  we  may  enjoy  a  play, 
a  picture,  a  piece  of  sculpture,  or  a  musical 
composition  without  any  acquaintance  with 
the  technique  involved  in  it,  that  fuller  and 
higher  appreciation  which  results  from  an  alli- 
ance of  feeling  and  intelligence  can  scarcely  be 
enjoyed  without  it.  For  technique  is  so  directly 
the  expression  of  the  artist's  individuality,  and 
so  interwoven,  as  warp  with  woof,  in  his  work 
of  art,  that  to  be  ignorant  of  it  is  to  be  incapable 
of  entering  intimately  into  what  he  creates. 
So  our  purpose  now  is  to  suggest  to  the  play- 
goer the  fundamental  principles  of  play  con- 
struction. 

154 


Interior  of  the  Swan  Theater. 
As  sketched  by  Johannes  DeWitt,  a  Dutch  scholar,  about  1566. 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

It  will  be  recalled  that  while  the  division  of 
the  play  into  acts  is  purely  at  the  discretion  of 
the  author,  the  division  of  the  plot  into  five 
stages  is  a  fundamental  principle.  It  is  based 
upon  the  simple  fact  that  anything  which  is 
complete  in  itself  —  and  a  play,  like  any  other 
work  of  art,  must  be  this  —  has  a  beginning, 
a  middle,  and  an  end;  and  directly  we  apply 
this  to  the  telling  even  of  a  simple  story  we  find 
the  need  of  two  intermediate  stages  of  growth. 
We  cannot  jump  from  the  beginning  to  the 
middle.  Having  made  a  start  we  find  ourselves 
carrying  it  forward  and  developing  the  story  so 
as  to  lead  up  to  some  central  point;  and  then, 
as  surely,  need  some  gradual  elucidation  that 
will  lead  to  the  conclusion.  Take,  for  example, 
that  story  in  the  "Ingoldsby  Legends."  The 
facts  are  that  an  old  gentleman  goes  to  bed, 
wakes  up  in  the  morning  to  find  his  clothes 
gone,  and  eventually  they  are  discovered  in  the 
shrubbery.  Well,  that  is  what  happened;  but 
the  story,  thus  told,  will  not  satisfy  us.  We  need 
firstly  to  be  interested  in  the  man,  so  that  the 
climax  of  his  embarrassment  may  be  appreciated, 
and  secondly  to  receive  some  explanation, 
accounting    for    the    conclusion.     The    author 

155 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

therefore,  having  introduced  us  to  the  old  gentle- 
man, proceeds  to  tell  us  that  he  is  a  very  shy  old 
bachelor,  who  never  before  has  slept  away  from 
home,  and  detests  any  interruption  of  his  daily 
routine  of  living.  His  habits  are  very  methodi- 
cal and  he  folds  up  all  his  clothes  carefully  and 
places  them  on  the  chair  beside  the  bed,  not 
without  some  apprehension  of  the  morrow,  for 
he  is  due  at  breakfast  an  hour  earlier  than  his 
usual  time  and  the  family  are  extremely  punc- 
tilious and  expect  even  their  guests  to  be  punc- 
tual at  meals.  In  this  way  we  are  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  humor  of  the  situation,  when  the  old 
gentleman  discovers  his  loss  and  is  at  his  wits' 
end  what  to  do;  for  there  is  no  bell  in  his  room, 
he  cannot  communicate  with  the  servants,  and 
waits  in  a  fever  of  shame  and  vexation,  until 
some  one  comes  to  see  why  he  tarries  and  the 
whole  household  is  aware  of  his  ridiculous  em- 
barrassment. By  the  way,  I  have  forgotten  to 
state  that  he  brought  with  him  only  the  one  suit 
of  clothes  which  he  had  on.  Instead  of  going 
back  and  inserting  this  information  where  it 
should  have  been  given,  I  confess  to  the  omission, 
in  order  to  emphasize  how  careful  the  play- 
wright must  be  to  include  every  detail  that  is 

156 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

essential  to  the  explanation  of  the  situation. 
He  must  anticipate  every  question  as  to  why  the 
old  gentleman  did  this  and  why  he  could  not 
have  done  that. 

Now,  however,  the  audience  is  waiting  for  a 
solution  of  the  mystery  of  the  disappearance. 
It  will  not  be  satisfied  with  their  discovery  in 
the  shrubbery;  it  demands  and  has  a  right  to 
be  told  how  they  got  there.  The  author's 
ingenuity  must  now  be  expended  on  the  denoue- 
ment or  untying  of  the  knot  of  the  mystery,  so 
that  he  may  gradually  prepare  us  for  the  final 
discovery  or  solution.  To  cut  a  long  story 
short,  I  will  remind  you  the  explanation  is  that 
the  old  gentleman,  when  mentally  disturbed, 
walks  in  his  sleep;  and  the  fun  consists  in  the 
method  invented  by  the  author  to  find  this  out. 
For  this  I  refer  you  to  the  "Ingoldsby  Legends"; 
since  my  present  purpose  is  not  to  relate  the 
story,  but  to  use  it  as  an  example  of  the  funda- 
mental principle  of  all  stories  or  plots,  com- 
plete in  themselves,  that  they  involve:  first,  an 
Introduction;  secondly,  a  Development  thereof, 
leading  up  to  the  third  stage,  the  Climax;  and 
fourthly  an  Untying  of  the  knot,  or  a  gradual 
tackling  one  by  one  of  the  conditions  produced 

157 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

by  the  climax,  until  the  fifth  and  last  stage  is 
reached,  and  the  story  or  problem  the  author 
set  out  to  relate  or  solve  is  brought  to  a  satis- 
factory Conclusion. 

Here  let  us  note  a  broad  distinction  between 
the  technique  of  a  story  and  that  of  a  play.  The 
play  must  tell  itself.  So  too  may  a  story; 
though  in  the  majority  of  cases  it  is  the  author 
who  tells  it.  Even  if  he  makes  the  characters 
in  their  dialogue  develop  the  plot,  he  is  ever  at 
hand  to  introduce  his  characters,  and  help  us  to 
an  understanding  of  them,  sometimes  by  merely 
a  qualifying  adjective  or  adverb,  often  by  direct 
explanation  or  description.  Behind  almost 
every  story,  especially  the  most  thoughtful  ones, 
we  are  continually  conscious  of  the  directing 
mind  of  the  author.  But  in  a  play  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  author's  share  in  the  work 
should  be  entirely  obliterated.  It  can  only  be 
so  when  the  author  has  given  a  complete  reason- 
ableness and  naturalness  to  his  action,  so  that 
each  phase  of  it  unfolds  itself  and  prepares  the 
way  for  the  following  phase,  which  in  its  turn 
moves  onward  with  apparent  inevitableness. 

Thus,  the  old-fashioned  device  of  a  prologue, 
if  used  as  a  means  of  explanation  of  what  is  to 

158 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

follow,  is  a  clumsy  intrusion  of  the  author's 
personality.  So  too  the  putting  of  a  soliloquy 
into  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  characters  is  a 
risky  expedient.  If  it  excites  any  suspicion  of 
having  been  adopted  in  order  to  get  certain 
facts  before  the  audience,  which  they  must 
know  and  the  author  could  find  no  other  means 
of  imparting,  the  soliloquy  is  intolerable.  On 
the  other  hand,  under  certain  conditions  it  is 
not  only  justifiable  but  most  effectively  dra- 
matic; witness  the  soliloquies  of  Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  and  Brutus.  But  each  of  these  in 
his  separate  way  is  an  idealist  and  a  dreamer; 
Hamlet,  given  to  solitary  brooding;  Macbeth 
with  the  artistic  imagination  that  gives  concrete 
form  to  abstract  ideas ;  Brutus  with  the  mental 
habit  of  weighing  causes  and  effects;  all  three 
under  a  great  mental  strain.  It  is  no  shock  to 
our  sense  of  probability  to  hear  them  think 
aloud;  and  their  thoughts  are  so  introspective 
that  they  seem  to  be  part  of  themselves  and  to 
remain  with  them.  It  would  be  different,  how- 
ever, if  they  came  down  to  the  footlights  and 
proclaimed  their  sentiments  to  the  audience. 
At  once  the  art  which  conceals  the  art  would 
disappear;  we  should  detect  a  trick  for  getting 

159 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

at  our  inteUigence  or  emotions  by  undramatic 
means. 

It  is  this  that  is  so  amusingly  parodied  by 
Sheridan  in  The  Critic;  referring  to  an  author's 
clumsy  method  of  getting  his  introductory  facts 
before  the  audience.  A  rehearsal  of  the  tragedy, 
you  remember,  is  going  forward  in  presence  of 
Puff,  the  author,  and  his  friends.  Dangle  and 
Sneer. 

Enter  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  Sir  Chris- 
topher Halton. 

Sir  C.       True,  gallant  Raleigh! 
Dangle.   "What,  they  had  been  talking  before  .?* 
Puff.         O  yes,  all  the  way  as  they  came  along. 
Sir  C.        True,  gallant  Raleigh! 

But     oh!    thou     champion     of     thy 

country's  fame. 
There  is  a  question  which  I  yet  must 

ask: 
A  question  w^hich  I  never  ask'd  be- 
fore ;  — 
"What  mean  these  mighty  armaments  ? 
This    general     muster?      And     this 
throng  of  chiefs  ? 


160 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

I  cannot  but  surmise  —  Forgive,  my 
friend. 

If  the  conjecture's  rash :  —  I  cannot 
but 

Surmise,  the  state  some  danger  appre- 
hends ! 

Sib  W.      You  know,  my  friend,  scarce  two  re- 
volving suns. 
And    three    revolving    moons,    have 

clos'd  their  course 
Since  haughty  Philip,  in  despite  of 

peace. 
With    hostile    hand    hath    struck    at 
England's  trade. 
Sir  C.       I  know  it  well. 
Sir  W.      Philip,  you  know,  is  proud  Iberia's 

king? 
Sir  C.       He  is. 
Sir  W.      His  subjects  in  base  bigotry 

And     Catholic    oppression    held,  — 

while  we 
You    know,    the    Protestant   persua- 
sion hold. 
Sir  C.    We  do. 


161 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Sir  W.       You  also  know  — 

Dangle.  Now,  Mr.  Puff,  as  he  knows  all  this, 
why  does  Sir  Walter  go  on  telling 
him.^ 

Puff.  But  the  audience  are  not  supposed  to 
know  anything  of  the  matter,  are  they  ? 

Sneer.  True ;  but  I  think  you  manage  ill :  for 
there  certainly  appears  no  reason 
why  Sir  Walter  should  be  so  com- 
municative. 

Puff.  Fore  gad !  now  this  is  one  of  the  most 
ungrateful  observations  I  ever 
heard;  for  the  less  inducement  he 
has  to  tell  all  this,  the  more  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  obliged  to  him; 
for  I'm  sure  you'd  know  nothing 
of  the  matter  without  it. 

Dangle.   That's  very  true,  upon  my  word. 

In  the  following  chapter  we  will  study  by 
comparison  with  this,  which  after  all  is  not  so 
very  extravagant  a  parody  of  some  authors' 
methods,  a  typical  example  of  sound  play-craft, 
Ibsen's  Hedda  Gabler,  but  for  the  present,  as  a 
preparation  to  it,  there  are  some  general  points 

to  be  considered. 

162 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

Let  us  try,  in  the  first  place,  to  trace  the 
genesis  of  a  play  in  the  author's  mind.  It  has 
been  well  said  that  the  motive  of  a  good  play 
can  usually  be  expressed  in  a  few  words.  Thus, 
that  of  Hedda  Gabler  might  be  stated  as  follows : 
—  a  woman,  temperamentally  unsuited  to  her 
surroundings.  Innumerable  are  the  ways  in 
which  this  germ  of  an  idea  might  be  expanded. 
Which  one  shall  Ibsen  adopt  ?  It  is  decided,  of 
course,  by  his  personal  outlook  upon  life.  It 
is  his  habit  to  regard  heredity  rather  than 
environment  as  the  determining  influence  upon 
character.  This  woman,  then,  shall  be  different 
from  the  people  about  her  because  of  certain 
traits  that  she  has  inherited.  These  shall  bring 
her  into  conflict  with  her  surroundings.  It  is 
inevitable;  and,  because  her  traits  and  theirs 
are  irrevocably  fixed,  there  can  be  no  com- 
promise. She  cannot  alter  her  environment, 
it  cannot  change  her;  the  conflict  must  be  to  the 
death.  Which  shall  conquer  .^^  the  environment 
or  the  individual.^ 

The  individual  —  individualism !  This  was  a 
subject  continually  uppermost  in  Ibsen's  mind; 
the  duty  of  the  individual  to  develop  to  the 
full  his  or  her  individuality;  the  virtue  of  daring 

163 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

to  be  individual;  the  need  of  individuahsm,  as 
the  Kkeliest  means  by  which  society  can  be 
regenerated.  Hedda  Gabler  shall  have  a  pro- 
nounced individuality.  Shall  it  prevail.?  Will 
she  dare  to  develop  it  to  the  uttermost.'^  Ibsen 
decided  not.  She  shall  be  one  whose  desire  is 
strong,  but  whose  courage  fails  her.  She  shall 
work  havoc  on  her  surroundings;  but  in  the 
end  their  aggregate  weight  shall  overwhelm 
her.     That  much  is  settled. 

But  to  Hedda's  weakness  of  will  a  contrast 
must  be  introduced.  Another  woman  shall 
present  it;  a  woman,  tame  in  character  beside 
the  brilliant  Hedda,  but  with  a  clear  courage 
and  a  quiet  strength  of  will  that  achieves.  She 
shall  not  destroy,  like  Hedda;  she  shall  build  up. 

By  this  time  the  scope  of  the  conflict  has 
widened.  It  is  more  than  the  clash  of  a  par- 
ticular individual  with  her  surroundings;  it  has 
become  also  a  conflict  of  principle,  embracing 
the  abstract  question  of  human  will.  The  action 
of  the  play  —  as  was  to  be  expected  in  the  case 
of  Ibsen  —  while  it  will  represent  the  acts  of 
the  different  personages  in  the  actual  doing, 
and  will  unfold  itself  to  ear  and  eye,  will  be  in 
its  highest  aspect  a  mental  action.     The  real 

164 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

drama  will  be  enacted  in  the  minds  of  the  vari- 
ous characters,  and  will  be  followed  mainly  by 
the  mind  of  the  audience.  What  is  seen  and 
heard  will  be  but  a  token  of  the  internal  con- 
flict. 

Does  this  idea  present  a  difliculty  to  any  of 
my  readers.''  If  so,  it  may  possibly  be  cleared 
up  by  the  following  consideration.  \Mien  the 
drama  of  the  Civil  War  was  being  enacted,  with 
the  world  as  audience,  the  foreign  portion  of 
that  audience  followed  the  progress  of  the  con- 
flict with  infinitely  less  acuteness  than  did  the 
American.  The  former  had  a  sentimental  and, 
it  may  be,  a  material  interest  in  the  issue;  but 
to  Americans  it  was  one  fraught  with  a  mo- 
mentous principle.  No  matter  on  which  of  the 
two  sides  their  sympathies  lay,  the  conflict  for 
them  was  not  confined  to  the  clash  of  arms. 
The  mind  of  each  was  a  battle-field,  in  which 
fear  and  hope,  pity  and  suspense,  contended; 
and  it  was  this  vast  background  of  a  nation's 
mind  in  conflict  that  gave  its  mighty  significance 
to  the  actual  movement  in  the  drama  of  the  war. 

Now,  will  not  the  parallelism  of  this  with  the 
conflict  of  a  drama  be  pretty  close  .^  Behind 
the  obvious  clash  of  conflicting  characters  the 

165 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

author  projects  as  a  background  the  larger, 
weightier  issue  of  a  conflict  of  principle.  It  is 
this  which  arouses  the  profoundest  interest  of 
the  audience.  Each  member  of  the  latter,  in 
the  light  of  his  own  experience  and  consciousness 
of  himself,  follows  the  conflict  step  by  step  in 
his  mind,  in  its  close  relation  to  his  own  weak- 
ness and  strength.  The  action  on  the  stage  is 
but  the  outward,  visible,  and  audible  sign  of  the 
inward  action  which  the  play  involves;  and 
which  the  author's  genius  has  aroused  in  the 
minds  of  his  audience.  The  person  who  can- 
not realize  in  his  own  mind  this  inward  conflict 
of  principle  is  an  outsider,  viewing  the  drama 
in  the  merely  superficial  way  that  the  outside 
world  watched  the  conflict  of  North  and  South. 
But  to  resume  our  attempt  to  reconstruct  the 
genesis  of  Hedda  Gabler.  Behind  the  conflict 
of  the  individual  and  environment,  Ibsen  deter- 
mined to  project  the  principle  of  Will  in  relation 
to  the  development  of  Individualism.  To  Hedda 
and  to  Mrs.  Elvsted,  types,  respectively,  of  the 
cowardly  and  the  courageous  will,  he  must  find 
foils.  To  permit  of  additional  sources  of  con- 
flict, they  shall  be  of  the  opposite  sex.  Hedda 
must    have    a    husband.     Though   her   will    is 

166 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

rebellious,  it  is  of  the  sort  that  finds  safety  for 
itself  in  the  conventions.  To  add  to  the  point 
of  this,  her  husband  shall  be  of  a  markedly  con- 
ventional type.  He  shall  be  George  Tesman,  a 
student,  absorbed  in  dry-as-dust  historical  re- 
search. Thea  Elvsted,  on  the  contrary,  must 
have  a  lover.  Her  nature  is  as  quiet  as  a  smooth 
sea,  her  will  sunk  fathoms  deep,  until  the  wind 
of  passion  stirs,  when  her  will  shall  rise  in  waves 
that  sweep  aside  all  bounds.  With  her  strength 
of  will  shall  be  contrasted  a  vacillating  will^  with 
her  quietness  of  character,  that  would  rather 
follow  than  lead,  a  brilliant  headstrong  man. 
He  shall  be  called  Eilert  Lovborg. 

To  this  pairing  off  of  the  characters  there 
must  be  some  separate  contrast.  The  mismated 
union  of  the  conventional  Tesman  with  the 
unconventional  Hedda  suggests  a  third  person 
to  complete  the  triangle.  He  shall  be  at  heart 
an  unscrupulous  libertine;  but  outwardly  con- 
ventional ;  a  respected  official,  say  a  judge  — 
Judge  Brack.  Finally,  as  a  complete  foil  to  the 
various  jars  of  strong  and  w^eak  wills,  of  conven- 
tion and  unconventionality,  of  individualism 
with  its  environment,  there  shall  be  a  character, 
at  odds  neither  with  itself  nor  others ;  a  character 

167 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

congenial  with  its  environment,  yet  no  slave  to 
the  conventions;  possessed  of  a  clear,  firm  will 
that,  however,  finds  its  highest  expression  in 
serving  the  happiness  of  others.  She  shall  be 
Miss  Julia  Tesman,  George  Tesman's  aunt. 

Here  to  hand  is  abundant  material  for  a 
drama;  involving  a  variety  of  occasions  of  con- 
flict, and  at  the  same  time  permitting  all  these 
tangled  issues  to  be  coordinated  to  one  over- 
mastering cause;  the  twofold  clash  of  principle, 
as  between  individualism  and  environment,  and 
between  weakness  and  strength  of  will.  A  story 
or  plot  will  soon  unfold  itself;  indeed,  it  has 
already  begun  to  ferment  in  the  author's  imagina- 
tion. 

For,  as  what  we  have  been  studying  has  sug- 
gested, the  true  genesis  of  a  drama  is  not  the 
result  of  first  thinking  of  a  story  and  then  fitting 
characters  to  it;  but  of  first  determining  what 
shall  be  the  nature  of  the  conflict.  This  settled^ 
the  author  selects  certain  characters  to  take 
part  in  the  fight.  They  will  figure,  to  use 
the  Athenian  term,  as  "protagonists,"  "deuter- 
agonists,"  "  tritagonists " ;  personages  of  first, 
second,  or  third  importance;  but  it  is  they  them- 
selves, through  the  interaction  of  their  respective 

168 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

motives  and  conduct,  who  must  decide  the  nature 
of  the  conflict.  The  author,  as  it  were,  will  sit 
back  and  watch  them;  and,  so  doing,  discover 
the  story  of  the  plot  unfolded  before  his  mental 
vision. 

Nor  should  this  be  reckoned  merely  a  meta- 
phor. It  is  a  fact.  The  inexperienced  author 
may  ignore  it,  and  that  he  does  so  may  help  to 
explain  the  reason  of  his  failures ;  but  the  analysis 
of  any  play  that  has  stood  the  criticism  of  time 
will  reveal  that  this  was  its  process  of  germina- 
tion and  development.  It  must  be  so,  because 
it  is  the  way  of  life.  Turn  a  number  of  contrary- 
tempered  dogs  loose  into  a  barn  and  they  will 
settle  for  themselves  the  story  of  the  conflict. 
Bring  a  variety  of  human  beings  into  close  rela- 
tions, and  their  respective  characters  will  deter- 
mine the  issue.  You  may  try  to  compel  the 
actions  of  one  or  two  of  them  into  a  groove  of 
your  own  devising;  but,  as  the  old  adage  has  it, 
"The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men  gang 
aft  agley." 

This  letting  the  characters  act  out  the  drama 
for  themselves,  is  stated  by  Maeterlinck.  "If," 
he  writes,  "I  can  successfully  create  real  human 
beings  and  let  them  act  as  freely  in  my  mind  as 

169 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

they  would  act  in  the  universe"  —  the  passage 
leads  to  a  conclusion  that  is  beside  our  present 
point;  but  the  fragment  shows  the  author's 
attitude  of  mind  in  approaching  the  develop- 
ment of  the  plot.  It  is  not  that  of  an  inventor, 
but  of  an  observer.  Neither  is  this  to  under- 
rate the  imagination  of  the  author.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  to  reckon  it  of  higher  capacity, 
exhibited  not  in  irresponsible  fancy,  but  in  a 
peculiar  sensitiveness  to  the  mysteries  of  human 
life. 

Nor  is  this  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the  plot 
should  unfold  itself  of  service  only  to  the  play- 
wright. For  the  student  also  of  the  drama  it 
is  a  basis  of  criticism  and  appreciation.  After 
he  has  assured  himself  of  the  author's  motive, 
stated  in  its  simplest  terms,  and  then  of  the  ex- 
pansion of  the  motive,  eflfected  by  the  choice  of 
characters,  he  will  examine  the  development  of 
the  plot  and  satisfy  himself  as  to  whether  the 
action  involves  actualities  that  would  be  likely 
to  arise  from  the  clash  of  the  various  personali- 
ties, and  that  their  conduct  is  what  might  be 
expected  under  such  circumstances  and  in  view 
of  the  action  and  reaction  of  the  characters  upon 
one  another. 

170 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

Before  recapitulating  the  plot  that  these  "real 
human  beings,'*  created  by  Ibsen,  acted  "freely 
and  naturally"  in  his  mind,  let  me  note  what  per- 
haps should  have  been  mentioned  before,  that 
Ibsen's  point  of  view  on  this  occasion  is  purely 
objective.  He  does  not  set  out  to  prove  or  to 
commend  anything.  He  is  not  to  be  understood 
as  wishing  to  justify  what  happens,  much  less 
to  point  a  moral.  While  the  action  is  concluded 
so  far  as  the  characters  and  conditions  involved 
are  concerned,  there  is  no  conclusion  arrived 
at  as  to  the  right  or  wrong  of  the  general  prin- 
ciple involved;  no  attempt  to  suggest  any  theory 
of  bettering  the  conditions.  For  the  time  being 
he  assumes  the  role  of  an  investigator,  pure  and 
simple,  who  analyzes  the  conditions  and  records 
them.  If  it  is  lamented  that  he  did  not  go 
further  and  offer  some  suggestion  for  ameliorat- 
ing or  averting  the  conclusion,  let  us  realize  that 
to  do  so  would  probably  have  defeated  the  pur- 
pose he  had  in  mind.  This  was  to  use  the 
popularity  of  the  stage  as  a  platform  from  which 
to  draw  people's  attention  to  the  great  subject 
of  Will  in  its  relation  to  heredity  and  environ- 
ment; not  to  exhaust  the  problem  at  one  sitting, 
which  its  magnitude  and  intricacy  would  make 

171 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

impossible,  but  to  open  the  minds  of  his  audience 
and  stir  their  interest,  so  that  they  might  be 
prompted  to  search  for  a  solution  elsewhere. 
Had  he  himself  attempted  a  solution,  it  would 
have  been  at  once  too  hastily  accepted  or  re- 
jected; in  either  case,  drawing  off  the  minds  of 
the  audience  from  his  main  purpose:  to  make 
people,  on  so  important  a  question,  think  for 
themselves. 

When  one  looks  into  the  matter,  what  we  call 
a  moral  is  only  a  generalization  that  conforms 
to  our  customary  conventional  way  of  looking 
at  things.  It  is  an  expression  of  that  over- 
respected  commonplace,  "Be  good  and  you  will 
be  happy,"  and  its  assumed  corollary,  *'If  you 
are  bad,  you'll  suffer  for  it."  Most  of  us  would 
rather  that  a  play  ended  happily;  if  it  doesn't, 
we  wish  to  be  assured  that  the  disaster  is  the 
fit  consequence  of  badness.  We  overlook  the 
fact  that  to  be  good  in  expectation  of  happiness 
is  a  low  ideal,  just  as  much  as  to  avoid  badness 
simply  from  fear  of  the  consequences;  more- 
over, also,  the  huge  fact  of  life,  that  goodness  is 
often  accompanied  by  disaster  and  that  wicked- 
ness may  flourish  like  a  green  bay  tree;  that, 
indeed,  the  good  and  the  bad  are  most  strangely 

172 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

mingled  in  the  scheme  of  nature  and  the  heart 
of  man.  More  probably  we  know  all  this  only 
too  well;  and  yet  humbug  ourselves  with  a  petty 
lie  that  confirms  us  in  crass  indifference  and 
profound  hypocrisy. 

But  serious  plays,  especially  those  of  modern 
times,  in  their  analysis  of  character  and  conduct, 
deal  with  contradictions  of  human  nature  — 
with  conditions  that  conflict  with  our  accepted 
notions  of  right  and  wrong;  with  the  thousand 
and  one  considerations  that  seem  at  variance 
with  the  harmony  of  the  universe.  We  must 
not  expect  to  find  in  them  a  comfortable  little 
conformity  with  childish  aphorisms;  or  an 
attempt  to  *'get  them  down  fine"  into  a  petty 
formula.  A  larger  geometry  than  is  yet  dreamed 
of  is  needed  to  adjust  the  harmony.  Mean- 
while the  role  of  the  playwright  is  to  prepare 
the  ground  for  a  solution  by  opening  up  the 
minds  of  the  audience  to  the  existence  and  the 
facts  of  the  problem.  He  may,  if  he  chooses, 
venture  also  upon  the  role  of  prophet  and  sug- 
gest a  possible  plan  of  solution.  But  it  should 
not  be  demanded  of  him.  The  work  of  inves- 
tigator, if  done  honestly,  may  well  be  suflScient 
for  one  man. 

173 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

And  now  for  the  story  of  themselves  that  the 
"real  human  beings,"  created  by  Ibsen,  "acted 
in  his  mind."  It  shall  be  stated  as  briefly  as 
possible.  Hedda  is  daughter  of  a  General  Gabler, 
an  aristocrat,  brought  up  without  a  mother's 
influence;  trained  to  ride  and  shoot;  "terrible 
grand  in  her  ways";  very  curious  about  life. 
One  of  her  companions,  named  Eilert  Lovborg, 
is  a  harum-scarum  youth;  she  takes  pleasure 
in  hearing  about  all  his  escapades;  as  a  result  of 
the  freedom  of  intercourse  he  is  disposed  to 
take  liberties  with  her;  she  threatens  to  shoot 
him  with  one  of  her  father's  dueling  pistols. 
In  time  the  "beautiful  Hedda  Gabler,"  though 
besieged  by  admirers,  one  of  them  being  a  Judge 
Brack,  whose  designs,  however,  are  patently 
unmatrimonial,  has  danced  herself  tired.  She 
feels  she  has  reached  an  age  when  she  must 
marry,  and  singles  out  George  Tesman,  a  student 
with  expectations  of  a  professorship  in  the  univer- 
sity, a  man  whose  connections  and  respectability 
are  beyond  all  question.  Brought  up  by  a 
maiden  aunt,  who  has  divided  her  unselfishness 
between  him  and  her  invalid  sister,  he  has  grown 
so  accustomed  to  be  cared  for  and  watched  over 
that  he  is  a  sort  of  learned  ninny.     Hedda  and 

174 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

he  are  married  and  go  off  on  a  six  months'  tour, 
during  which  he  pursues  his  researches  in  the 
hbraries  of  Europe.  She  is  bored  to  death  and 
chafes  at  the  fact  that  she  is  to  become  a  mother, 
apprehensive  that  it  will  tie  her  down  to  con- 
ventions and  bring  her  under  the  ministrations 
of  her  husband's  aunt.  The  latter,  in  their 
absence,  at  great  personal  sacrifice,  has  seen  to 
the  furnishing  of  their  home,  assisted  in  the 
business  arrangements  by  Judge  Brack,  who  is 
establishing  his  position  as  a  "friend  of  the 
family."  When  they  return  home,  the  husband 
is  full  of  plans  for  his  work,  his  wife  restless 
and  soured.  Among  the  first  callers  is  Mrs. 
Elvsted,  a  schoolmate  of  Hedda's;  she  is  in 
trouble.  It  appears  that  she  was  compelled  for 
a  livelihood  to  become  housekeeper  to  a  widower 
with  children,  who,  to  save  the  expense  of  her 
wages,  marries  her.  The  union  is  childless  and 
loveless.  For  the  education  of  her  step-children, 
Lovborg  is  engaged  as  a  tutor.  His  reputation 
had  become  very  bad;  drink  had  ruined  his 
prospects,  and  he  was  regarded  by  everybody  as 
"down  and  out."  But  the  quiet  influence  of 
Mrs.  Elvsted  works  regeneration.  He  gives  up 
drink,  writes  a  book  that  secures  high  praise, 

175 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

and  under  her  inspiration  has  completed  the 
MS.  of  another  that  he  anticipates  will  make 
him  famous.  He  has  come  to  town  to  place  his 
work  with  the  publishers;  his  pockets  are  full 
of  money  and  Mrs.  Elvsted  fears  that  apart 
from  her  he  may  yield  to  his  old  weakness. 
Impelled  by  anxiety,  and  by  love,  she  follows 
him  and  appeals  to  the  Tesmans  to  invite  him 
to  their  house.  An  invitation  is  despatched, 
though  Tesman  has  already  begun  to  dread  him 
as  a  rival  for  the  professorship.  With  Hedda 
it  is  at  first  a  curiosity  to  see  her  old  comrade 
in  his  reformed  guise;  but  when  she  finds  that 
his  comradeship  has  been  transferred  to  Mrs. 
Elvsted,  and  that  the  latter  has  a  power  over  his 
will  that  she  herself  could  not  exert,  the  devil 
surges  in  her.  She  will  reassert  her  old  in- 
fluence at  any  cost.  She  tempts  him  to  drink 
and  taunts  him  into  accepting  an  invitation  to  a 
bachelor  party  at  Judge  Brack's,  where  the 
revelry  is  sure  to  run  high.  His  trust  in  his 
newly  recovered  will-power  does  not  save  him 
from  succumbing  to  his  old  enemy.  The  orgy 
is  prolonged  till  daybreak,  when  he  with  some 
of  the  party  repairs  to  the  rooms  of  a  celebrated 
actress-courtezan.     On   the   way   he   drops  his 

176 


Genesis  of  a  Plot 

manuscript,  and,  discovering  its  loss,  charges  the 
woman  with  stealing  it.  A  row  ensues,  the 
police  are  called  in  and  he  is  arrested  for  an 
assault  upon  them.  Meanwhile  the  manu- 
script has  been  picked  up  by  Tesman.  Instead 
of  restoring  it  immediately  to  Lovborg  he  brings 
it  home  to  Hedda  and  she  secretes  it,  as  Brack 
appears.  He  takes  a  malicious  interest  in 
describing  Lovborg's  disgrace,  for  in  his  deter- 
mination to  "complete  the  triangle'*  in  the 
Tesman  menage,  he  would  crush  any  possible 
rivalry  on  Lovborg's  part.  Presently  the  latter 
appears,  overwhelmed  with  shame  and  in  despair 
at  the  loss  of  what  he  calls  "the  child"  of  him- 
self and  Mrs.  Elvsted.  He  is  bent  on  suicide, 
and  Hedda,  to  direct  the  way,  puts  into  his  hand 
one  of  the  General's  pistols.  He  is  no  sooner 
gone  than  she  burns  the  manuscript.  Tesman 
is  appalled  at  her  act;  the  more  so  when  the 
news  arrives  of  the  suicide  of  Lovborg.  Judge 
Brack  brings  it.  He  has  discovered  that  the 
deed  was  committed  with  one  of  Hedda's  pistols, 
and  she  recognizes  that  he  thinks  he  has  her  in  his 
power.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Elvsted,  ready  to  for- 
give Lovborg  for  his  lapse  from  probity,  learns  of 
his  death  and  of  the  loss  of  their  "  child."     Her 

177 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

grief  is  swallowed  up  in  the  resolve  to  protect 
his  memory.  She  has  still  the  notes  from  which 
the  manuscript  was  composed  and  is  determined 
that  the  book  shall  still  appear.  Tesman,  as  a 
secret  expiation  for  the  destruction  of  the  MS. 
and  his  share  in  Lovborg's  death,  offers  to  help 
her.  The  two  of  them  sit  down  immediately 
and  become  absorbed  in  the  work.  Hedda  sees 
that  again  the  will  of  Mrs.  Elvsted  will  prevail, 
while  her  own  will  is  threatened  by  the  domina- 
tion of  Judge  Brack.  She  steps  into  the  next 
room  and  with  her  father's  second  pistol  shoots 
herself. 

Such,  in  brief,  is  the  story  which  in  the  next 
chapter  we  are  to  see  take  shape  in  dramatic 
form,  and  become  invested  with  richness  and 
subtlety  of  allusion,  through  the  author's  sym- 
pathy of  imagination  with  the  "real  human 
beings"  he  has  created. 


178 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   INTRODUCTION 

IN  the  previous  chapter  we  reviewed  the 
motive  of  Hedda  Gabler;  the  expansion  of 
the  same  that  resulted  from  Ibsen's  creation  of 
certain  "real  human  beings";  and  finally  the 
story  which  they  told  to  his  imagination.  Now 
it  remains  to  analyze  the  dramatic  form  into 
which  that  story  has  been  transmuted.  It  is 
the  product,  to  repeat  Maeterlinck's  words,  of 
Ibsen's  having  let  the  real  human  beings  of  his 
creation  act  in  his  mind  as  freely  and  naturally 
as  they  would  act  in  the  universe. 

I  have  selected  this  example  of  Ibsen,  because 
he  is  a  model  to  whom  practically  all  modern 
dramatists,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  are  in- 
debted; a  model,  not  only  of  psychological 
analysis,  but  of  dramaturgy  or  the  science  and 
art  of  play  construction.  He  himself  was  a 
student  of  the  theater  first  of  all,  then  of  the 
French  playwright.  Scribe.  His  experience  as 
the  manager  of  a  theater  gave  him  that  practical 

179 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

acquaintance  with  the  possibilities  and  Hmita- 
tions  of  the  stage  that  can  scarcely  be  acquired 
except  by  actual  stage  work.  Not  that  he 
allowed  the  stage  traditions  to  shackle  his 
originality;  on  the  contrary,  his  knowledge  of 
them  was  as  much  a  warning  as  a  guide.  Know- 
ing them  thoroughly  and  having  analyzed  their 
degree  of  worth  or  worthlessness,  he  was  in  a 
position  to  use,  modify,  or  reject  them.  He 
brought  a  similarly  independent  judgment  to 
bear  on  the  technical  methods  of  Scribe's  plays. 
The  latter  were  distinguished  by  a  conciseness 
and  compactness  of  form,  in  which  all  the  parts 
were  closely  and  naturally  related;  by  a  logic  as 
clean  and  rigid  as  that  of  a  scientific  proposition. 
They  were,  indeed,  based  upon  science,  as  all 
art  is,  and  thereby  possessed  the  balance  of 
harmony  that  must  characterize  a  work  of  art. 
But  Scribe's  plays,  by  comparison  with  Ibsen's, 
are  creations  light  as  air.  They  deal  simply 
with  the  externals  of  character,  and  make  much 
of  the  intrigues  of  circumstances.  Ibsen's,  on 
the  contrary,  rely  less  upon  things  happening, 
and  vastly  more  upon  the  internal  workings  of 
human  character.  Their  logic,  therefore,  is 
infinitely  more  trenchant,  and  their  conciseness 

180 


The  Oly.mpiax  Theater  at  Vicenza. 

From  Rtccobonra  "  Histoire  du  Theatre  Italien.' 

(See  page  49.) 


The  Introduction 

more  severely  harmonious,  demanding  a  closer 
observation  and  a  keener  intelligence  on  the 
part  of  the  audience.  It  is  on  this  account  that 
they  offer  so  valuable  a  model  both  for  the  young 
dramatist  and  for  every  serious  student  of 
the  drama.  Moreover,  his  published  plays  are 
within  the  reach  of  everybody;  and  I  am  assum- 
ing that  the  reader  will  keep  his  copy  of  Hedda 
Gabler  open  before  him,  as  he  studies  this  chap- 
ter. In  doing  so  there  is  one  thing  that  must 
be  borne  in  mind. 

Ibsen  was  a  Realist;  his  plays  were  a  reaction, 
on  the  one  hand,  against  the  Heroic  drama  that 
had  sunk  into  stilted  artificiality,  and,  on  the 
other,  against  the  Romantic  that  had  become 
no  less  artificial  by  its  inflated  sentiment.  He, 
therefore,  deliberately  confined  his  dramas,  at 
any  rate  the  later  ones  that  are  usually  acted, 
to  a  very  ordinary  phase  of  life,  excluding  with 
an  equal  deliberation  anything  that  might  lift 
our  minds  above  the  ordinary  routine  of  living. 
He  seldom  reared  castles  for  the  imagination, 
peopled  with  high  and  noble  thoughts  that  exalt 
our  aspirations  or  awake  the  spirituality  that 
may  be  in  us.  He  built,  mostly  on  the  dead  level 
of  existence,  contracted  habitations,  low-roofed 

181 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

with  small  windows  that  admit  little  or  nothing 
of  the  sunlight  of  the  universe.  But  what  he  did 
was  done  with  so  high  a  purpose  and  so  admi- 
rable a  craftsmanship,  that  his  plays  remain 
a  model  for  the  student.  The  principles  of 
their  technique  are  as  applicable  to  themes 
heroic  and  romantic,  and  even  humorous,  as 
they  are  to  the  psychological  realism  that  he 
made  his  own.  Let  us,  therefore,  "mark,  learn, 
and  inwardly  digest  them." 

The  scene  of  the  action  in  Hedda  Gabler  is 
Tesman's  villa  in  the  west-end  of  Christiania. 
To  be  more  precise,  it  is  a  spacious,  handsome, 
and  tastefully  furnished  drawing-room,  open- 
ing through  a  wide  doorway  into  a  smaller  room 
at  the  back.  Shall  we  note  in  passing  the 
advantage  of  this  double  arrangement.^  The 
second  room  gives  a  sense  of  extra  space  to  the 
scene,  which,  on  the  other  hand,  as  in  the  third 
act,  can  be  made  to  seem  more  cramped  and 
contracted  by  drawing  the  curtains  across  the 
wide  doorway.  The  back  room  also  will  per- 
mit of  a  secondary  phase  of  the  action  being 
represented  there,  while  the  main  action  is 
proceeding  in  the  front  room.  As  we  view  the 
room  we  are  to  imagine  a  door  in  the  right  wall, 

182 


The  Introduction 

leading  to  the  hall;  and  in  the  opposite  wall 
another  door,  with  glass  panels  through  which 
a  veranda  and  garden  are  visible.  Thus  there 
are  two  means  of  communication  with  the  out- 
side world:  one  through  the  garden,  the  other 
directly  on  the  street.  Equally  there  are  two 
modes  of  access  to  the  other  parts  of  the  house, 
one  through  the  inner  room,  the  other  by  way 
of  the  hall  to  the  staircase.  In  some  stage 
settings  of  the  play  other  doors  are  added,  but 
the  above  represent  the  actual  number  needed 
for  the  action.  Without  describing  the  furniture 
in  detail,  we  observe  that  it  presents  four  nuclei, 
around  which  the  action  from  time  to  time  will 
concentrate.  First,  on  our  right,  is  a  stove  with 
seats  near  it;  secondly,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room,  a  settee  and  small  table;  thirdly, 
toward  the  center,  a  table  and  chair;  fourthly,  a 
sofa  in  the  back  room.  Into  this  last,  the  piano, 
that  in  the  first  act  occupies  a  place  in  the  front 
room,  is  subsequently  removed. 

We  will  so  far  anticipate  the  progress  of  the 
action  as  to  note  that  it  has  divided  itself  into 
four  acts.  The  first  introduces  all  the  charac- 
ters; though,  in  the  case  of  Lovborg,  we  only 
hear  about  him,   his   actual   appearance   being 

183 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

deferred  to  the  second  act.  Moreover,  two 
personages  —  the  aunt's  invahd  sister  and  Mrs. 
Elvsted's  husband  —  remain  throughout  un- 
seen. The  second  act  develops  the  relations 
that  have  been  established  between  the  charac- 
ters, quickens  and  sets  in  motion  the  action  in 
preparation  for  the  climax  that  occupies  the  third 
act;  while  the  fourth  disentangles  the  situation, 
created  by  the  climax,  and  leads  onto  the  con- 
clusion. In  analyzing  each  act  we  will  adopt 
the  French  device  of  marking  its  successive 
scenes.* 

Act  I.  The  Introduction 
The  action  opens  early,  say  nine  o'clock,  on 
the  morning  following  the  return  home  of  Hedda 
and  George  Tesman.  But,  observe,  when  the 
curtain  rises,  we  do  not  know  this.  In  fact, 
we  know  nothing;  our  minds  are  a  blank  of 
expectancy,  waiting  to  receive  impressions.  One 
immediately  is  registered.  Clearly  the  house  of 
well-to-do  people  of  the  upper  class,  with  its 
array  of  comfort  and  decoration.  Warm  sun- 
shine streaming  in  through  the  glass  doors. 
Very  bright  and  cheery!  Ah!  two  women,  one 
apparently  a  servant. 

^  See  page  114. 

184 


The  Introduction 

Scene  I 
Enter,  the  book  says,  Mis3  Tesman,  the  aunt, 
and  Berta,  the  maid.  Yes,  but  we  are  supposed 
not  to  have  read  the  play,  or  ever  to  have  seen  it. 
How  then  do  we  discover  who  they  are  ?  We 
must  wait  for  something  in  the  conversation 
that  will  give  us  the  clue.  Yet  this  is  but  a  very 
small  part  of  the  information  needed  to  satisfy 
our  expectancy.  One  by  one,  these  and  the 
other  characters,  as  they  arrive,  will  be  intro- 
duced to  us;  and  we  shall  listen  to  and  watch 
them;  but  the  action  in  which  they  are  involved 
will  be  unintelligible  to  us,  unless  we  are  also 
informed  to  some  extent  of  what  has  happened 
to  them  before  the  beginning  of  the  play.  The 
introduction  must  contain  sufficient  indication 
of  their  past  to  explain  the  present.  It  is  to  the 
wonderful  skill  with  which  Ibsen  gets  this  evi- 
dence before  his  jury  that  I  specially  direct 
your  attention  here.  It  is  characterized  not  only 
by  what  he  tells  us ;  —  just  so  much  as,  and  no 
more  than,  is  needful  for  our  comprehension  of 
the  present;  but  also  by  when  he  tells  it;  a  bit 
here,  a  bit  there;  occasionally  only  something 
hinted  at,  the  full  knowledge  postponed  that 
its  effect  may  be  heightened  by  suspense.     So 

185 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

clumsily  and  obviously  do  some  authors  put  us 
in  possession  of  previous  facts,  needed  to  be 
known,  that  the  exquisite  tact  with  which  Ibsen 
does  it  should  receive  our  keenest  study.  Read 
and  re-read  the  first  act,  and  note  just  when  and 
how  each  necessary  brick  of  fact  is  built  into 
the  structure.  Every  part  of  the  dialogue,  in 
fact,  is  so  essential  that  it  is  extremely  difficult 
to  summarize  it.     However,  let  us  try. 

Enter  a  lady  in  her  walking  clothes,  and  a 
maid,  carrying  a  bouquet,  which  she  places  on 
the  piano. 

Observe  the  opening  words:  "I  don't  believe 
they  are  stirring.*'  An  immediate  stroke  that 
wakes  our  alertness.    "  They."   Who  are  *'  they  "  ? 

Then  three  strokes  in  the  reply:  "I  told  you 
so.  Miss,"  an  incidental  indication  that  the 
speaker  is  a  servant,  her  companion  a  maiden 
lady.  Then  a  reference  to  "them"  —  "steam- 
boat —  last  night."  So  "they"  have  just  arrived 
from  abroad.  Thirdly,  "the  young  mistress" 
—  clearly  the  more  important  of  the  two  in 
the  maid's  eyes. 

Immediately  after,  if  you  will  read  on  for  a 
page  of  the  book,  you  learn  incidentally  that  the 
maid's  name  is  Berta;  that  she  has  hitherto  been 

186 


The  Introduction 

in  the  service  of  "Miss  Julia,'*  who  has  an  in- 
valid sister,  "Miss  Rina,"  whom  both  of  them 
have  cared  for.  But  —  and  this  is  the  more 
important  fact  —  they  have  also  cared  for 
"George."  So  he  is  the  partner  of  the  young 
mistress,  and  at  the  very  instant  we  get  an  idea 
of  him.  It  is  Miss  Julia  Tesman  who  speaks, 
thereby  suggesting  that  it  is  he  rather  than  the 
young  mistress  in  whom  she  is  particularly 
interested.  "George  can't  do  without  you,  you 
see,  he  absolutely  can't.  He  has  had  you  to 
look  after  him  ever  since  he  was  a  little  boy." 
We  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  George 
is  a  bit  of  a  softie.  Then,  note,  on  the  very  heels 
of  this  impression  is  another  reference  to  the 
"young  mistress"  —  "terrible  grand  in  her 
ways  —  "General  Gabler's  daughter"  —  "think 
of  the  sort  of  life  she  was  accustomed  to  in  her 
father's  time."  "Should  never  have  dreamt 
that  she  and  Master  George  would  have  made 
a  match  of  it."  Ah!  as  we  expected,  they  are 
married.  Possibly  we  already  have  a  suspicion 
that  they  are  ill-assorted. 

Next  an  intimation  that  George  has  the 
Academic  Degree  of  Doctor.  "We  may  have 
to  call  him  something  still  grander  before  long" 

187 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

—  **H'm — wouldn't  you  like  to  know!"  Not 
yet,  for  this  indicates  an  undercurrent  of  the 
action,  of  which  we  shall  be  informed  later. 
"But,  bless  me,  Berta!  Taken  the  chintz  off 
all  the  furniture?"  "The  mistress  told  me 
to.  Master  George  —  the  Doctor  —  he  said 
nothing."  These  last  words  are  the  cue  for 
Tesman's  first  entrance. 

Before  commencing  Scene  2,  let  us  recapitu- 
late what  we  have  learned.  George  Tesman 
is  married  to  a  daughter  of  General  Gabler  — 
her  first  name  we  have  not  yet  learned  —  and 
the  couple  are  just  returned  from  their  wedding- 
tour.  George,  it  seems,  has  been  brought  up 
among  women,  maiden  ladies  at  that;  looked 
after  ever  since  he  was  a  boy;  evidently  a  good 
little  boy  who  has  grown  into  a  nice  young  man; 
studious  and  already  a  Doctor,  with  a  prospect 
of  further  advancement.  His  wife,  however,  is 
socially  his  superior;  brought  up  by  a  military 
man  in  a  grand  way.  It  was  a  surprise  to  every- 
body that  she  and  George  made  a  match  of  it. 
There  is  already  a  hint  of  the  wife's  independence 
of  conventions.  "She  can't  abide  covers  on 
the  chairs."  Orders  them  to  be  removed,  while 
George  "said  nothing." 

188 


The  Introduction 

Scene  II 

Enter  George  Tesman,  carrying  an  empty 
portmanteau.  Mutual  salutations.  Then  first 
intimation  of  Judge  Brack.  He  had  been  at 
the  pier  to  meet  the  bridal  couple,  and  saw  Miss 
Tesman  home.  No  room  in  the  carriage  be- 
cause of  the  pile  of  boxes  brought  by  Hedda. 
It  is  her  husband  who  first  introduces  the 
familiarity  of  her  first  name;  and  at  the  same 
moment,  unconsciously,  suggests  both  her  ex- 
travagance and  selfishness.  A  pile  of  boxes  — 
she  allowed  the  older  lady  to  walk! 

Tesman  hands  the  portmanteau  to  Berta, 
who  says,  "I'll  put  it  in  the  attic."  Note  the 
ingenuity  of  the  device.  The  introduction  of 
the  portmanteau  provides  both  a  natural  reason 
for  Berta's  exit,  and  also  a  start  for  Tesman's 
conversation.  It  has  been  "chock  full  of  docu- 
ments —  picked  up  from  all  the  archives  he 
has  been  examining";  he  hasn't  "wasted  his 
time"  on  his  wedding  trip! 

There  follows  a  little  business  over  Miss 
Tesman's  bonnet  —  a  "gorgeous"  bonnet; 
bought  "on  Hedda's  account";  —  "so  that 
Hedda  need  not  be  ashamed  of  me."  George 
has  untied  the  bonnet  and  places  it  on  a  chair. 

189 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

They  sit  affectionately,  holding  each  other's 
hands.  First,  an  emphasizing  of  the  fact  that 
Aunt  Julia  has  been  as  a  father  and  mother  to 
George;  then  another  allusion  to  the  invalid 
aunt;  and  now  on  to  "beautiful  Hedda  Gabler, 
that  was  so  beset  with  admirers,"  and  later  to 
the  wedding  tour  of  nearly  six  months. 

Has  George  nothing  to  tell  ?  Oh  yes,  he  has 
been  "grubbing  among  old  records."  But 
nothing  special?  No  expectations.?  Ah!  to  be 
sure,  he  expects  to  be  a  "professor  one  of  these 
days.'*  Aunt  Julia  laughs  to  herself  and 
changes  the  subject  to  the  expense  of  the  trip. 
"Great,"  replies  Tesman,  "but  Hedda  had  to 
have  this  trip."  The  house  too  —  what  is  to 
be  done  with  the  two  empty  bedrooms.?  still 
Hedda  had  set  her  heart  on  the  house  —  for- 
tunately Judge  Brack  has  secured  the  most 
favorable  terms;  "so  he  said  in  a  letter  to 
Hedda." 

Now  it  transpires  that  to  help  in  the  payment 
Aunt  Julia  has  mortgaged  her  annuity.  But 
Judge  Brack  has  assured  her  it  is  "only  a 
matter  of  form."  Besides  she  has  no  other 
happiness  in  the  world  except  to  smooth  the 
way  for  her  dear  boy.     "And   now   we  have 

190 


The  Introduction 

reached  the  goal,  George;  thank  heaven,  now 
you  have  nothing  to  fear."  "Yes,"  rephes  the 
complacent  Tesman,  "it  is  really  marvellous 
how  everything  has  turned  out  for  the  best." 

Now  mark  —  following  immediately  on  this, 
the  first  mention  of  Eilert  Lovborg.  Says  the 
aunt,  in  the  selfishness  born  of  affection,  "The 
people  who  opposed  you  have  fallen.  Your 
most  dangerous  rival  —  his  fall  was  the  worst. 
And  now  he  has  to  lie  on  the  bed  he  has  made 
for  himself  —  poor  misguided  creature."  Tes- 
man knows  whom  she  means,  and  it  is  Tesman, 
the  one  most  interested  in  the  matter,  that  is 
made  to  tell  us.  "Have  you  heard  anything 
of  Eilert  Lovborg.?"  " What  —  published  a 
book  —  Eilert  Lovborg!"  The  reply  is,  "Yes, 
so  they  say.  Heaven  knows  whether  it  can  be 
worth  anything."  And  the  implication  is: 
Heaven  grant  it  may  not  be.  "But  when  your 
new  book  appears,  George — "  "TMiat  is  it 
to  be  about.?" 

Note  carefully  the  reply,  for  it  is  leading  up 
to  the  end  of  the  scene  and  Hedda's  entrance. 
"It  will  deal  with  the  domestic  industries  of 
Brabant  during  the  Middle  Ages"  —  "I  have 
all  those   collections  to  arrange  first."     "Yes, 

191 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

collecting  and  arranging  —  there  you  are  my 
poor  brother's  own  son."  **I  am  looking  for- 
ward eagerly/*  he  says,  "to  setting  to  work  at 
it;  especially  now  that  I  have  my  own  delight- 
ful home  to  work  in.'*  "And,**  suggests  Aunt 
Julia,  "the  wife  of  your  heart.**  He  puts  his 
arms  round  her  and  kisses  her.  "  Oh !  yes,  yes. 
Aunt  Julia  —  Hedda  —  she  is  the  best  of  all ! 
I  believe  I  hear  her  coming  —  eh.?'* 

To  recapitulate  —  what  addition  has  this 
scene  made  to  our  knowledge  and  how  has  it 
advanced  the  progress  of  the  story?  We  are 
pretty  well  assured  of  the  character  of  Aunt 
Julia;  much  more  important,  we  know  very 
nearly  all  that  is  to  be  known  of  George  Tesman ; 
a  booby  —  a  grown-up  baby,  that  has  been 
coddled  and  dreads  competition;  a  dry-as-dust 
student,  absorbed,  not  in  the  facts  of  the  present 
but  in  musty  researches  into  the  past.  As  to 
Hedda  —  the  contrast  of  her  character  has  been 
still  further  enforced;  her  extravagance  pointed 
out,  and  the  question  raised:  is  she  expecting 
to  become  a  mother?  Moreover,  three  allu- 
sions have  helped  to  familiarize  us  with  the 
name  of  Judge  Brack  and  to  raise  a  question 
as  to  his  relations  with  the  other  personages  of 

192 


The  Introduction 

the  plot;  and  a  most  significant  reference  has 
been  made  to  another  character  —  Eilert  Lov- 
borg.  He  has  fallen  into  disgrace,  and  yet, 
great  surprise,  has  written  a  book  that  has  been 
well  received. 

That  these  two  characters  should  have  first 
been  brought  to  our  notice  in  Tesman*s  scene 
is  significant.  Ibsen  is  not  satisfied  merely  to 
get  the  facts  before  the  audience.  He  exhibits 
the  tact  and  subtlety  of  his  method  in  two  ways : 
first,  by  making  the  information  reach  us  through 
the  person  who  will  be  affected  by  the  coming 
facts  —  both  these  men  are  to  step  between 
Tesman  and  Hedda;  secondly,  by  insinuating 
the  information  a  little  at  a  time,  so  that  the 
suspense  of  expectancy  is  prolonged,  and  the 
mind  of  the  audience  stimulated  to  form  its 
own  conjectures.  This  is  particularly  true  as 
to  the  appearance  of  Hedda.  The  audience 
has  already  formed  some  idea  of  her  general 
characteristics,  and  is  in  eager  expectation  of  a 
fuller  acquaintance. 

She  is  the  principal  character  in  the  play  and 
careful  provision  has  been  made  that  her  en- 
trance may  be  duly  led  up  to.  This,  of  course, 
is  a  very  usual  device  of  playwrights.     They 

193 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

get  their  play  well  started  before  bringing  on 
the  chief  person ;  and  it  is  a  device  that  naturally 
commends  itself  to  the  vanity  of  "stars."  But 
let  the  student  note  that  Ibsen  did  not  consider 
the  device  indispensable;  Nora,  for  example, 
opens  the  first  scene  in  A  DolVs  Hotise. 

However,  to  resume.  *'Oh,  yes,  yes.  Aunt 
Julia  (embraces),  Hedda,  she  is  the  best  part  of 
it  all.     I  believe  I  hear  her  coming  —  eh.?" 

Scene  III 
Enter  Hedda;  a  woman  of  nine  and  twenty; 
face  and  figure  of  refinement  and  distinction; 
pale  complexion;  eyes  with  a  cold,  unruffled 
expression;  a  tasteful,  somewhat  loose-fitting 
morning  gown.  To  Aunt  Julia's  — "  Good 
morning,  my  dear  Hedda y^'  she  replies  (holding 
out  her  hand),  "Good  morning,  dear  Miss 
Tesman.^*  Embarrassment,  followed  by  a  com- 
monplace—  "Has  the  bride  slept  well  in  her 
new  house  .f^"  "Passably;  of  course  one  has 
always  to  accustom  oneself  to  new  surroundings. 
Miss  Tesman  —  Httle  by  little."  Not  a  word 
of  pleasure  at  seeing  Miss  Tesman;  or  of  appro- 
val about  the  house,  or  the  joy  of  being  in  it. 
On   the   contrary,    a   fretful   complaint.     "The 

194 


The  Introduction 

servant"  —  not,  mark  you,  familiarly  by  name 

—  *'has  opened  the  veranda  door  and  let  in  a 
flood  of  sunshine."  "Shut  it  —  no,  not  that! 
Tesman,  please  draw  the  curtains."  "Yes, 
fresh  air  we  certainly  must  have." 

At  this  point  Miss  Tesman  presents  George 
with  a  parcel,  wrapped  in  newspaper.     "Hedda 

—  isn't  this  touching,  eh.^"  (By  the  way,  have 
you  observed  his  exasperating  trick  of  saying 
"eh.?";  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  class,  and 
wanted  to  make  sure  the  pupils  were  attentive  ?) 
"  My  old  morning  shoes !  My  slippers."  Hedda 
(not  interested):  "I  remember  you  often  spoke 
of  these  while  we  were  abroad."  "Yes,  I 
missed  them  terribly.  Now  you  shall  see  them, 
Hedda."  "Thanks,  I  really  don't  care  about 
it."  "Oh!  you  can't  think  how  many  associa- 
tions cling  to  them."  "Scarcely  for  me"  — 
"Of  course  not  for  Hedda,  George"  —  "Well, 
but  now  that  she  belongs  to  the  family,  I 
thought — "  But  Hedda  interrupts:  "We  shall 
never  get  on  with  this  servant,  Tesman."  "Not 
get  on  with  Berta.?"  "Look  there,  she  has  left 
her  old  bonnet  lying  about  on  a  chair."  Con- 
sternation of  George  and  natural  indignation 
on  the  part  of  Aunt   Julia.     She  prepares  to 

195 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

take  her  leave.  "But,  Auntie,  take  a  good 
look  at  Hedda  before  you  go!  See  how  hand- 
some she  is!"  —  "Oh,  my  dear  boy,  there's 
nothing  new  in  that.  Hedda  was  always 
lovely.'*  But  Tesman,  disregarding  Hedda's 
*'Oh!  do  be  quiet,"  persists  in  calling  atten- 
tion to  her  splendid  condition;  how  she  has 
filled  out,  which  he  attributes  to  the  mountain 
air  of  the  Tyrol.  Hedda  (curtly),  *'I  am  exactly 
as  I  was  when  I  started."  "So  you  insist;  but 
I  am  quite  certain  you  are  not.  Don't  you 
agree  with  me.  Auntie  ?^*  Meanwhile,  the  latter, 
having  forgotten  her  wrath,  has  been  gazing 
at  Hedda.  "Hedda  is  lovely  —  lovely  — 
lovely."  She  goes  up  to  her,  draws  down  her 
head  and  kisses  her  hair.  "God  bless  and 
preserve  Hedda  Tesman  —  for  George's  sake." 
It  is  the  only  time  in  the  play  that  her  full 
married  name  is  mentioned.  Hedda  gently 
frees  herself .  "Oh!  let  me  go."  Miss  Tesman, 
with  quiet  emotion,  assures  her :  "  I  shall  not  let 
a  day  pass  without  coming  to  see  you,"  and 
with  a  lingering  "Good-by — good-by"  goes 
out  into  the  hall,  accompanied  by  Tesman. 

Hedda    paces    the    floor,    says    nothing,    but 
raises  her  arms  and  clenches  her  fists,  in  des- 

196 


The  Introduction 

peration.  Then  she  flings  back  the  curtains 
from  the  glass  door,  and  is  standing,  gazing  out, 
as  Tesman  re-enters.  He  goes  to  pick  up  the 
slippers,  remarking,  "What  are  you  looking 
at,  Hedda?"  She,  calm  now  and  mistress  of 
herself,  replies,  "I  am  only  looking  at  the 
leaves.  They  are  so  yellow  —  so  withered." 
He,  wrapping  up  slippers,  "Well,  you  see,  we  are 
well  into  September  now."  She,  again  restless, 
"Yes, to  think  of  it!  Already  in — in  September." 

Now  follows  a  talk  about  Aunt  Julia.  How 
strange  and  solemn  her  manner.  A\Tiat  was 
the  matter  with  her?  Was  she  annoyed  about 
the  bonnet.'^  Hedda  asks,  and  adds,  "I  shall 
manage  to  make  peace  with  her."  But  she  will 
not  promise  to  treat  her  with  intimacy,  and  at 
the  suggestion  that  she  should,  now  that  she 
belongs  to  the  family,  exclaims,  "I  can't  in  the 
least  see  why."  A  pause,  then  Tesman:  "Is 
there  anything  the  matter  with  you,  Hedda  — 
eh.^"  "I  am  only  looking  at  my  old  piano.  It 
doesn't  go  at  all  well  with  all  the  other  things." 
She  will  put  it  in  the  inner  room,  "and  get 
another  for  this  room  —  of  course,  when  con- 
venient." 

And  now  preparation  is  made  for  the  entrance 
197 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

of  Mrs.  Elvsted.  Hedda  picks  up  a  bouquet. 
It  is  the  one  that  was  brought  in  by  Berta  at  the 
commencement  of  the  play  and  laid  on  the 
piano.  It  contains  a  card,  with  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Elvsted,  who  is  destined  to  be  Hedda's 
rival.  Note  the  extraordinary  skilfulness  of 
this  and  its  no  less  remarkable  subtlety.  Placed 
there,  before  a  word  was  uttered,  for  the  pur- 
pose, it  has  been  like  seed  in  the  ground,  until 
the  time  was  duly  arrived  for  it  to  appear  above 
the  surface;  and  then  it  is  discovered  by  Hedda. 
Written  on  the  card  are  the  words,  *' Shall  return 
later  in  the  day."  Then  quickly  we  learn  that 
she  is  Sheriff  Elvsted 's  wife  —  Miss  Rysing  that 
was;  the  girl  with  the  irritating  hair,  who  was 
at  school  with  Hedda  and  was  an  old  flame  of 
Tesman's.  "It's  odd  that  she  should  call." 
"I  wonder,"  says  Tesman,  *'how  she  can  en- 
dure to  live  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  hole  — 
eh.?"  A  sudden  thought  on  Hedda's  part: 
"Tell  me,  Tesman  —  isn't  it  somewhere  near 
there  that  he  — that  Eilert  Lovborg  is  living?" 
As  Tesman's  reply,  "Yes,  he  is  somewhere  in 
that  part  of  the  country,"  is  uttered,  Berta  enters 
to  announce  the  arrival  of  the  lady  who  had 
brought  the  flowers. 

198 


The  Introduction 

To  recapitulate:  The  scene  has  informed 
us  that  there  is  not  between  Hedda  and  her 
husband  the  sympathy  that  might  have  been 
expected  six  months  after  marriage;  it  has  con- 
firmed our  notion  that  he  is  a  ninny;  it  has  told 
us  much  about  her.  She  is  ill  at  ease;  fretful, 
despondent.  She  feels  that  she  is  in  the  grip 
of  a  humdrum  life;  hates  the  thought  of  becom- 
ing a  mother,  since  it  will  fasten  the  grip  tighter. 
She  looks  back  to  the  old  days  of  which  her 
piano  is  the  token ;  feels  that  her  life  has  reached 
its  September,  already  yellow  and  withered. 
She  is  more  than  indifferent  to  the  feelings  of 
others.  She  can  be  cruel;  witness  the  episode 
of  the  bonnet.  She  is  a  disappointed,  possibly  a 
dangerous  woman.  It  is  clear  she  never  liked 
Mrs.  Elvsted.  Already  a  suspicion  connects 
the  latter  with  Lovborg,  who  has  not  been 
entirely  absent  from  Hedda's  thoughts,  for  by 
a  slip  of  the  tongue  she  alluded  to  him  as  "he." 
We  have  a  presentiment  of  trouble,  though  no 
inkling  has  been  given  of  the  shape  which  it 
will  assume. 

Scene  IV 

Enter  Mrs.  Elvsted:  a  woman  of  fragile  figure, 
199 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

with  pretty,  soft  features,  abundant  hair,  almost 
flaxen.  She  has  a  startled,  inquiring  expres- 
sion. Hedda,  whatever  may  be  her  real  feel- 
ings, greets  her  warmly.  Tesman  fumbles  with 
her  name,  calling  her  Mrs.  Rysing.  Mrs. 
'Elvsted  says  she  arrived  yesterday,  about  mid- 
day, and  was  in  despair  when  she  heard  that 
the  Tesmans  were  not  at  home.  Yes,  she  is  in 
trouble,  and  knows  no  other  creature  here  that 
she  can  turn  to.     Hedda  draws  her  to  the  sofa. 

Well,  what  is  it.?  Mrs.  Elvsted:  "Oh!  I  am 
so  anxious  you  should  not  misunderstand  me." 
*'Then,"  replies  Hedda,  "your  best  plan  is  to 
tell  us  the  whole  story.'*  "Yes,  of  course  it  is," 
says  Mrs.  Elvsted;  but,  observe  that  she  doesn't 
tell  the  whole  at  first.  Her  trouble  is  that 
Eilert  Lovborg  has  come  to  town,  "has  been  a 
week  in  this  terrible  town,  with  so  many  temp- 
tations on  all  sides." 

Then  Hedda  —  "But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Elvsted, 
how  does  he  concern  you  so  much .?"  "He  was 
the  children's  tutor."  "  Your  children's .? "  "  My 
husband's.  I  have  none."  "Was  he  regular 
enough  in  his  habits.'^"  asks  Tesman,  "for  the 
post.''  Eh.?"  "For  the  last  two  years  his  con- 
duct has  been  irreproachable."     "Fancy  that, 

200 


The  Introduction 

Hedda,"  he  says;  and  she  replies,  "I  hear  it." 
After  which,  note  that  she  remains  silent,  while 
Tesman  inquires  into  the  reason  of  Lovborg's 
coming  to  town.  He  became  restless  after  his 
book  was  published  and  made  such  a  sensation. 
The  book,  Tesman  surmises,  was  written  in  his 
better  days.  *'No,  he  has  written  it  all  since 
he  has  been  with  us  —  during  the  last  year." 
Tesman:  "Isn't  that  good  news,  Hedda?" 
But  Hedda  is  still  silent.  It  is  Mrs.  Elvsted 
who  says,  "Ah  yes,  if  only  it  would  last!" 

Now  it  is  Hedda  that  speaks:  "Have  you 
seen  him  here  in  town.?"  then  a  moment  later, 
"It  seems  to  me  a  little  odd  that  your  husband 
doesn't  come  himself  and  look  after  his  friend." 
"Oh,  no,  no,  my  husband  has  no  time.  And, 
besides,  I  —  I  had  some  shopping  to  do.'* 
Hedda  smiles.  "Ah,  that  is  a  different  matter." 
Mrs.  Elvsted  now  appeals  directly  to  Tesman, 
on  the  score  of  his  old  friendship  with  Eilert, 
to  receive  the  latter  at  his  house  and  keep  a  sharp 
eye  upon  him.  Tesman  promises,  and  Hedda 
suggests  that  he  write  a  letter  of  invitation  — 
and  at  once.  Tesman,  having  gathered  up  the 
slippers,  retires  to  write  it.  Note  that  it  is  to 
Tesman  that  Mrs.  Elvsted  has  looked  for  help. 

201 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Left  alone  with  Mrs.  Elvsted,  Hedda's  manner 
changes  to  smiles  and  cajolery.  She  knows 
there  is  something  more  to  tell.  "We'll  have  a 
cozy,  confidential  chat,  —  tell  me  about  your 
life  at  home."  When  Mrs.  Elvsted  demurs, 
Hedda  reminds  her  that  they  were  school- 
fellows. "Yes,  but  how  dreadfully  afraid  I 
was  of  you  then.  You  used  to  pull  my  hair, 
and  once  you  said  you  would  burn  it  on  my 
head."  But  Hedda's  present  cajolery  disarms 
her  fears.  She  has  not  been  accustomed  to 
kindness;  she  has  never  had  a  home;  and  she 
tells  how  she  went  as  governess  to  Sherijff 
Elvsted's  children  and  five  years  ago  became 
his  wife.  "And  Eilert  Lovborg,"  inquires 
Hedda  lightly,  "has  been  in  your  neighborhood 
about  three  years .^"  "Yes;  he  came  to  us 
every  day;  he  gave  the  children  lessons.  Yes, 
my  husband  was  often  away  from  home,  being 
sheriff  he  had  to  travel." 

Before  w^e  go  any  further,  have  you  noticed 
what  excessive  care  and  deliberation  Ibsen  is 
expending  in  telling  of  this  affair  of  Thea 
Elvsted's.^  As  a  matter  of  fact,  her  relations 
with  Lovborg  are  to  be  the  lever  which  sets  the 
action  of  the  plot  in  movement;  therefore,  as 

202 


The  Introduction 

is  his  wont,  Ibsen  makes  sure  of  the  fulcrum 
on  which  the  lever  rests.  To  be  certain  of  our 
attention,  he  creates  a  suspense  in  the  telling 
of  Thea's  and  Eilert's  previous  relations;  he 
unfolds  the  facts  in  three  stages,  which  are  cu- 
mulative in  their  interest.  First,  while  Tesman 
is  present,  Thea  gives  a  guarded  and  somewhat 
garbled  account  that,  however,  stirs  our  sus- 
picion of  the  actual  facts;  secondly,  when  alone 
with  Hedda,  a  more  intimately  detailed  one 
that  tends  to  confirm  it;  thirdly,  as  we  are  now 
to  see,  a  still  more  intimate  account  which, 
while  it  leaves  no  doubt  of  the  facts,  tends  to 
arouse  our  sympathy  both  with  Thea  and  with 
Eilert,  and,  whatever  we  may  think  of  the 
former's  conduct,  at  least  obliges  us  to  admit 
the  daring  and  decision  of  her  character. 

Hedda  closes  in  upon  the  third  stage  of  the 
narrative  with  a  burst  of  assumed  sympathy. 
"Thea,  my  poor  sweet  Thea,  —  now  you  must 
tell  me  everything,  exactly  as  it  stands."  "Well, 
then,"  replies  Thea,  "you  must  question." 
Hedda  does,  and  draws  out  the  knowledge  that 
'Thea's  husband  is  twenty  years  older  than  her- 
self; that  they  have  no  single  point  of  sympathy; 
that  he  regards  her  "simply  as  a  useful  prop- 

203 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

erty";  that  he  cares  for  no  one  but  himself,  and 
perhaps  a  Httle  for  the  children.  For  Eilert 
Lovborg?  "Oh!  dear  no.  What  put  that  into 
your  head  — .''  Did  I  say  that  he  sent  me  after 
Eilert  all  the  way  to  town.?  Yes,  I  suppose  I 
did." 

And  now  mark  the  sudden  change  in  Thea's 
demeanor.  She  is  cornered,  and  what  does 
she  do.?  "I  may  just  as  well  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  at  once,"  she  says  vehemently.  So 
now  the  woman,  who  up  to  this  point  has  seemed 
so  fragile,  and  soft,  and  startled,  wriggling  in 
the  tightening  grasp  of  Hedda's  questions,  takes 
the  first  place  in  the  dialogue.  Hedda's  share  is 
mainly  ejaculations.  It  is  Thea,  who,  as  she 
says,  will  make  a  long  story  short.  She  has 
come  without  her  husband's  knowledge,  and 
will  never  go  back  to  him.  She  could  not  face 
the  lonehness  of  the  future.  She  had  to  come. 
"There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done."  "People 
may  say  what  they  like  for  aught  I  care.  I 
have  done  nothing  but  what  I  had  to  do.'* 
Then,  prompted  by  a  question  of  Hedda's,  she 
describes  frankly  and  freely  how  the  intimacy 
between  her  and  Eilert  came  about.  The  word 
"love"   is  not  mentioned;  she  describes  their 

204 


The  Introduction 

relation  as  that  of  comrades.  It  began  by  her 
obtaining  a  sort  of  influence  over  him,  so  that 
of  his  own  accord  he  gave  up  his  old  habits; 
then  it  developed  into  her  being  allowed  to  help 
him  in  his  work,  and  ended  by  her  becoming 
an  inspiration  to  him.  Meanwhile,  she  realizes 
that  between  her  and  him  there  is  the  shadow 
of  another  woman.  "AMio  can  that  he?"  asks 
Hedda  anxiously.  "I  don't  know  —  someone 
he  knew  in  his  —  in  his  past.  Someone  he 
has  never  been  able  wholly  to  forget."  And 
while  we  of  the  audience  can  scarcely  fail  to 
recognize  that  the  shadow  is  Hedda  herself, 
Thea  says  that  Eilert  has  told  her  that,  when  he 
and  the  woman  parted,  she  threatened  to  shoot 
him  with  a  pistol.  "Oh!  nonsense!"  exclaims 
Hedda,  "no  one  does  that  sort  of  thing  now." 
Thea  agrees,  and  says  that  is  why  she  suspects 
"that  red-haired  singing-woman  whom  he  once 
—  "for  I  remember  that  they  used  to  say  of  her 
that  she  carried  loaded  firearms."  To  which 
Hedda  assents:  "Oh  —  then  of  course  it  must 
have  been  she."  Thea,  wringing  her  hands,  is 
saying  that  "this  singing-woman  is  in  town 
again,"  when  Tesman's  step  is  heard  and  Hedda 
whispers,    "Thea  —  all   this   must   remain   be- 

205 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

tween  you  and  me,"  and  Thea  eagerly  as- 
sents. 

George  Tesman  returns  with  the  letter,  and 
Berta,  coming  in  a  moment  later  to  announce 
Judge  Brack,  is  told  to  post  it. 

To  recapitulate:  we  have  been  informed  of 
Thea's  relations  with  Eilert,  and  that  his  un- 
doing was  due  to  drink;  and  have  learnt  the 
decision  of  her  character,  that  she  dares  to  act 
as  her  will  prompts  her;  also  that  she  is  appre- 
hensive about  the  strength  of  Eilert's  will-power. 
As  to  Hedda:  we  have  received  a  further  sug- 
gestion of  her  having  had  some  sort  of  relations 
with  this  Eilert,  who  has  already  been  men- 
tioned as  her  husband's  rival  in  a  professional 
way.  Moreover,  we  have  discovered  that  de- 
ceit also  is  an  element  in  Hedda's  character; 
she  can  feign  a  sympathy  with  Thea,  and  with- 
hold confidences  from  her  husband.  Already 
we  realize  that  in  some  way,  yet  to  be  developed, 
she  will  be  closely  mixed  up  in  this  affair  of 
Thea  and  Lovborg.  In  fact,  the  design  of  the 
plot  is  beginning  to  appear.  Incidentally,  there 
have  been  significant  references  to  a  singing- 
woman,  and  to  pistols  and  threats  of  shooting. 
Later  on  we  shall  look  back  and  see  that  these, 

206 


The  Introduction 

with  the  bouquet,  mentioned  above,  were  so 
many  seeds,  planted  against  the  time  when  their 
appearance  above  the  surface  would  be  needed. 

Scene  V 

Let  us  recall  that  Judge  Brack  has  already 
been  mentioned  three  times.  He  was  at  the 
pier  to  greet  the  bridal  couple  and  saw  Aunt 
Julia  home;  in  the  purchasing  and  furnishing 
of  the  house  he  secured  most  favorable  terms 
—  "so  he  said  in  a  letter  to  Hedda";  also  he 
advised  the  aunt  that  her  mortgaging  of  her 
annuity  was  only  a  matter  of  form. 

Enter  Judge  Brack;  a  man  of  forty-five,  dark 
hair  and  moustache,  rather  aristocratic,  thick- 
set, well-built;  elastic  in  his  movements;  a  well 
cut  walking-suit,  a  little  too  youthful  for  his 
age;  an  eye-glass,  which  he  now  and  then  lets 
drop.  *'May  one  venture  to  call  so  early  in 
the  day .?"  —  "Of  course  one  may,"  says  Hedda; 
Tesman  adding,  "You  are  welcome  at  any 
time."  He  then  introduces  Thea  to  Judge 
Brack  as  "Miss  Rysing";  one  more  indication, 
significant  in  the  light  of  future  events,  of  how 
easily  his  mind  resumes  the  footing  on  which  he 
used  to  be  with  Thea.     Her  exit  has  now  to  be 

207 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

arranged.  Mark  the  manner  of  it.  Hedda 
for  a  minute  or  two  ignores  her  presence,  laugh- 
ingly pays  compHments  to  the  Judge;  and 
when  Tesman  would  extract  from  him  a  com- 
pliment upon  her  own  appearance,  exclaims: 
"Oh!  do  leave  me  alone.  You  have'n't  thanked 
Judge  Brack  for  all  the  trouble  he  has  taken." 
To  Brack's  reply,  that  it  was  a  pleasure,  she 
adds,  "Yes,  you  are  a  friend  indeed.'*  Only 
then  does  she  notice,  or  at  any  rate  heed,  Thea's 
"impatience  to  be  off."  With  an  au  revoir  to 
the  Judge  and  a  promise  to  be  back  presently, 
she  escorts  Mrs.  Elvsted  to  the  hall  door. 

During  her  absence  there  are  three  pages  of 
dialogue  between  the  two  men.  We  are  to 
discover  the  Judge's  attitude  towards  the  hus- 
band before  learning  what  it  is  towards  the 
wife.  It  is  characteristic  of  Ibsen's  logical 
method. 

The  first  point  is  that  Tesman  looks  to  Brack 
for  advice  and  assistance  in  financial  matters; 
and  the  Judge  wishes  that  *'we  had  gone  a  little 
more  economically  to  work."  Tesman  replies: 
'^Think  of  Hedda,  my  dear  fellow!  You  who 
know  her  so  well.  I  couldn't  possibly  ask  her 
to  put  up  with  a  shabby  style  of  living."     To 

208 


The  Introduction 

which  Brack  —  **  No,  no,  that  is  just  the  diffi- 
culty." WTien  Tesman  speaks  confidently  of 
his  expected  appointment,  the  Judge  suggests 
that  it  may  hang  fire;  and,  when  pressed  for  a 
more  definite  statement,  turns  the  conversation 
to  Lovborg.  \Miat  follows  is  chiefly  significant, 
as  showing  how  completely  Tesman  disregards 
him  as  a  serious  rival;  he  even  speaks  kindly  of 
his  reformation,  but  adds:  **How  in  the  world 
will  he  be  able  to  make  a  living  —  eh?" 

It  is  upon  these  words  that  Hedda  re-enters. 
She  observes  to  Brack,  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 
"Tesman  is  forever  worrying  how  people  are 
to  make  their  living."  "Well,  you  see,  dear," 
replies  her  husband,  "we  are  talking  about 
poor  Eilert  Lovborg."  With  a  quick  glance  at 
him,  she  exclaims,  "Oh,  indeed,"  seats  herself 
in  a  chair  and  asks  indifferently,  "What  is  the 
matter  with  him?"  Tesman  utters  a  few 
generalities,  ending  with  a  wonder  what  is  to 
become  of  him.  "Perhaps,"  remarks  Brack, 
"I  can  give  you  some  information  on  that  point." 
He  has  deferred  the  object  of  his  visit  until 
Hedda's  return.  Now  he  goes  for  it.  It  is  no 
less  than  the  fact  that  the  professorship  is  to  be 
decided  by  competition  and  that  Tesman  may 

209 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

expect  a  rival  in  Lovborg.  Tesman  is  appalled. 
**We  have  married  on  the  strength  of  these 
prospects  and  run  deep  into  debt."  Hedda, 
immovable  in  her  chair:  "A  contest,  Tesman, 
fancy  there  will  be  a  sort  of  sporting  interest  in 
that."  When  her  husband  charges  her  with 
indifference,  she  adds,  "I  am  not  at  all  indiffer- 
ent —  I  am  most  eager  to  see  who  wins." 

Here  the  Judge  intervenes.  He  thought  it 
best  for  Mrs.  Tesman  to  know  this  before  she 
set  about  any  little  purchases.  To  Hedda's 
retort,  "This  can  make  no  difference,"  he 
suavely  replies,  "Indeed,  then  I  have  no  more 
to  say."  He  has  shot  his  bolt  and  prepares  to 
leave.  He  will  call  in  again  in  the  afternoon 
to  pick  up  Tesman,  who  promised  yesterday  on 
the  pier  to  attend  the  bachelor  party  he  is  giving 
this  evening,  and  Hedda's  last  words,  as  she 
holds  out  her  hand  to  the  Judge,  are,  "Be  sure 
you  call  in  the  afternoon."  (Note  in  passing 
how  naturally  this  provides  for  the  Judge's 
reappearance  on  the  scene.)  Tesman  accom- 
panies him  to  the  door  of  the  room;  but,  still 
agitated,  begs  to  be  excused  from  escorting  him 
further. 

Now  husband  and  wife  are  alone  and  the  end 
210 


The  Introduction 

of  the  act  is  at  hand.  Mark  the  final  touches. 
"Oh!  Hedda,  one  should  never  rush  into  ad- 
ventures—  eh?"  She  looks  at  him  smiling: 
"Do  you  do  that?"  "Yes,  it  was  adventurous 
to  many  upon  mere  expectations."  And  her 
reply,  "Perhaps  you  are  right  there."  Then 
Tesman's  quick  glancing  off  to  the  delights  of 
the  new  home  "we  both  dreamed  of";  and 
Hedda's  reminder,  slowly  and  warily  uttered, 
that  "our  compact  was  that  we  were  to  go  into 
society  —  to  keep  open  house."  For  the  present 
they  must  be  content  with  Aunt  Julia's  society; 
no  man  in  livery;  no  saddle  horse.  "Well,  I 
shall  have  at  least  one  thing  to  kill  time  with  in 
the  meanwhile.  —  My  pistols,  George  —  Gen- 
eral Gabler's  pistols.'  She  retires  into  the 
inner  room. 

Tesman,  rushing  to  the  doorway:  "No,  for 
heaven's  sake,  Hedda  darling  —  don't  touch 
those  dangerous  things!  For  my  sake  Hedda 
—  eh?" 

Curtain 

What  is  the  sum  total  of  the  impressions 
received  from  this  introduction?  Those  which 
have  been  suggested  step  by  step,  as  scene  fol- 
lowed scene,  culminate  in  the  conviction  that 

211 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Hedda  Gabler  and  George  Tesman  are  tragi- 
cally mismated;  that  he  is  a  negligible  quantity; 
that  she  —  extravagant,  cruel,  deceitful,  soured 
—  is  a  dangerous  woman. 

We  have  made  acquaintance  with  all  the 
characters ;  and  seen  all  of  them  except  Lovborg, 
whose  actual  appearance  has  been  deferred, 
with  the  result  that  our  curiosity  is  piqued  by 
suspense.  And  already,  as  we  have  observed, 
the  foundations  of  the  action  have  been  laid 
in  the  relations  between  him  and  Thea.  Al- 
ready also  there  is  the  shadow  of  the  tragic 
finale  in  "those  dangerous  things"  —  the  pistols; 
and  a  flash  that  we  feel  to  be  of  irony  in  Tesman's 
appeal  —  "For  my  sake,  Hedda  —  eh?*' 


212 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   DEVELOPMENT 

IN  examining  the  Development  and  subse- 
quent stages  of  the  plot  of  Hedda  Gabler  we 
must  summarize  as  much  as  possible.  This, 
however,  is  only  due  to  the  space-limits  of  the 
present  book;  and  should  not  be  construed  by 
the  reader  as  implying  that  the  succeeding  acts 
do  not  merit  or  demand  a  study  fully  as  detailed 
as  we  have  given  to  the  Introduction.  But  by 
this  time  the  student  should  be  in  a  position  to 
bring  to  the  study  of  each  act  his  own  individual 
precision  of  examination.  I  have  tried  to  sug- 
gest the  method;  and  it  is  for  him  to  make  it  his 
own.  He  may  be  assured  that  the  effort  will 
bring  its  own  reward,  and  that  without  it  the 
true  inwardness  of  this  particular  drama,  and 
the  general  principles  of  all  good  drama  con- 
struction, cannot  be  fully  appreciated. 

The  scene  of  the  Development  is  the  same  as 
before;  except  that  the  piano  has  been  removed 
into  the  back  room,  and  a  table  and  chair  sub- 

213 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

stituted  for  it.  It  is  the  afternoon  of  the  same 
day. 

Hedda,  dressed  to  receive  callers,  is  standing 
at  the  glass  door,  loading  a  pistol.  The  fellow 
to  it  lies  in  an  open  pistol-case  on  the  table. 

We  must  delay  a  moment  to  note  a  rule  laid 
down  by  some  writers  on  the  technique  of  the 
drama,  namely,  that  in  the  interval  between 
any  two  acts  of  a  drama,  something  must  be 
supposed  to  have  happened  that  helps  the  action 
to  advance.  No  act  must  resume  the  action, 
precisely  where  it  left  off,  at  the  end  of  the  pre- 
vious act.  Two  recent  plays,  however,  Charles 
Rann  Kennedy's  The  Servant  in  the  House, 
and  Bernard  Shaw's  Getting  Married,  produced 
a  few  months  later,  have  ignored  this  rule. 
The  latter  author,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
intended  his  piece  to  present  an  unbroken  con- 
tinuity. He  lowers  the  curtain  only  for  the 
convenience  of  the  audience.  And  after  it  has 
been  down  the  customary  ten  minutes,  it  rises  to 
discover  the  characters  exactly  in  the  same 
position  as  when  we  saw  them  last.  The  effect 
is  ludicrous,  and  is  permitted  to  be  so;  being,  in 
fact,  only  an  addition  to  the  numerous  other 
instances  of  poking  fun  at  the  prejudices  of  the 

214 


The  Development 

public  in  which  the  play  abounds.  Kennedy's 
motive,  however,  was  to  reconcile,  as  far  as 
possible,  the  modern  divisions  into  acts  with 
the  continuity  of  action  of  the  Athenian  drama. 
He  therefore  lowers  the  curtain  only  for  a  few 
seconds.  In  that  brief  interval  there  has  been 
no  time  for  a  progress  in  the  action;  but  a  space 
has  intervened,  so,  while  the  thread  of  the  story 
goes  on  uninterruptedly,  the  characters  have 
changed  their  positions  or,  at  least,  their  gestures 
slightly. 

The  excellence  of  both  these  plays  proves  that 
the  above-mentioned  rule  may  be  honored  in 
the  breach.  On  the  other  hand,  they  enforce 
the  general  proposition  that,  if  there  is  a  de- 
liberate interval  of  time  between  the  two  parts 
of  the  action  —  as  in  this  case,  where  the  time 
has  progressed  from  morning  to  afternoon  — 
some  progress  also  in  the  action  must  necessarily 
occur. 

What  has  happened  in  the  present  instance? 
Hedda's  restlessness  has  led  her  to  rearrange 
the  furniture.  Her  piano,  which  recalls  her 
past,  she  has  put  back  into  the  comparative 
privacy  of  the  inner  room.  She  has  dressed  to 
receive  visitors:  Judge  Brack,  for  certain,  pos- 

215 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

sibly  Eilert  Lovborg.  Meanwhile  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  mental  condition  in  which  we  left 
her  is  very  pointedly  suggested  by  the  fact  that, 
notwithstanding  her  husband's  entreaty,  she  is 
playing  with  *' those  dangerous  things" — the 
pistols. 

She  looks  through  the  glass  doors,  sees  Judge 
Brack  approaching  through  the  garden,  calls 
to  him  —  we  hear  his  voice  in  the  distance  — 
and  fires.  "This  is  what  comes  of  sneaking  in 
at  the  back  door."  "Are  you  out  of  your 
senses?"  we  hear  him  say;  and  as  he  enters,  — 
"  What  the  deuce  —  haven't  you  tired  of  that 
sport  yet.?  What  are  you  firing  Sii?*'  "Oh! 
I'm  only  firing  in  the  air."  And  she  lets  him 
take  the  pistol  from  her  and  replace  it  in  the 
case. 

It  is  a  strange  incident;  so  strange  that  it  sets 
us  thinking,  as  it  did  the  Judge.  He  may  take 
it  as  a  warning  to  be  careful  how  he  tampers 
with  her  independence;  we,  as  a  reminder  that 
the  use  of  pistols  has  been  familiar  to  her,  and 
as  an  indication  of  recklessness  in  her  character. 
The  Development,  in  fact,  begins  with  an  em- 
phasizing of  what  is  past  and  a  warning  note  of 
what  is  coming. 

216 


The  Development 

Presently  she  shuts  the  pistols  in  a  drawer  of 
the  writing  table.  Already  we  have  begun  to 
watch  "those  dangerous  things"  and  to  note 
their  whereabouts.  Meanwhile,  she  has  been 
saying  how  bored  she  is,  that  the  pistols  were  a 
refuge  for  ennui;  and  then  the  conversation 
turns  to  her  pleasure  in  once  more  having  a 
tete-a-tete  with  Judge  Brack.  Then  she  descants 
on  the  intolerable  condition  of  being  constantly 
in  the  company  of  one  man  and  him  a  "special- 
ist" of  so  dry  and  dull  a  sort;  and  explains  why 
she  married.  "I  had  positively  danced  myself 
tired,  my  dear  Judge.  My  day  was  done  — 
Oh !  no,  I  won't  say  that,  nor  think  it  either  — 
and  George  Tesman,  after  all,  is  correctness 
itself.  I  expected  him  to  attain  the  highest 
distinction,  and  he  was  bent  on  providing  for 
me.  It  was  more  than  any  other  of  my  ad- 
mirers were  prepared  to  do  for  me,  my  dear 
Judge." 

This  gives  the  Judge  his  cue.  He  would  be 
the  trusted  friend  —  "Of  the  master  of  the 
house,  do  you  mean.?"  —  "Frankly,  of  the 
mistress  of  the  house  first  of  all,  but  of  course 
of  the  master  too,  in  the  second  place.  Such  a 
triangular    friendship    is    really    a    great    con- 

217 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

venience  for  all  parties.'*  Then  follows  some 
banter  in  which  we  are  shown  that  it  is  boredom, 
not  wantonness,  that  will  induce  her  to  accept 
such  a  friend.  He  must  be  "not  the  least  bit 
of  a  specialist."  The  front  door  is  heard  to 
open;  Brack  remarks,  "the  triangle  is  com- 
pleted," and  Hedda,  half  aloud,  makes  an 
exclamation  of  weariness,  as  Tesman  enters. 

So  the  Judge's  intention  has  been  clearly  devel- 
oped; Hedda's  acquiescence  in  it  only  partially 
given. 

Scene  II 

Tesman  is  loaded  with  books,  among  them  a 
copy  of  Eilert  Lovborg's  new  work,  which  he 
has  looked  into  on  the  way  home.  He  thinks 
it  shows  "quite  remarkable  soundness  of  judg- 
ment." He  will  go  and  dress  in  preparation 
for  Brack's  party.  By  the  bye.  Aunt  Julia  will 
not  be  here  this  evening.  "On  account  of  the 
bonnet.''"  asks  Hedda;  "No,  but  Aunt  Rina  is 
much  worse  than  usual."  "You  can't  imagine 
how  delighted  Aunt  Julia  seemed  to  be  because 
you  had  come  home  looking  so  flourishing." 
Hedda:  "Oh!  those  everlasting  aunts!" 
"What .?"      "Nothing."      "Oh  —  all  right"  — 

and  Tesman  retires. 

218 


The  Development 

Brack  inquires  about  the  allusion  to  the 
bonnet.  She  explains.  "I  pretended  to  think 
it  was  the  servant's."  "How  could  you?" 
"Well,  you  see"  (nervously  crossing  the  room), 
"these  impulses  come  over  one  all  of  a  sudden 
and  I  cannot  resist  them." 

Later  on  we  shall  recall  this  admission  as 
having  an  important  bearing  on  Hedda's  con- 
duct. Meanwhile,  we  may  admire  now  the 
skill  with  which  that  allusion  to  the  bonnet 
made  its  introduction  here  quite  natural  and 
apparently  unintentional. 

Brack  replies:  "You  are  not  really  happy  — 
that  is  at  the  bottom  of  it."  She  admits  it. 
Why  should  she  be  ?  And  she  proceeds  to  ex- 
plain further  how  she  led  Tesman  on  to  offer 
her  marriage.  She  made  him  share  her  desire 
to  live  in  this  house;  which  to  her,  however,  is 
not  home-like.  "There  is  an  odor  of  mortality 
about  it."  (Another  phrase  to  be  remembered 
later.)  He  suggests  that  what  she  really  needs 
is  a  "stimulating  experience"  —  a  "new  respon- 
sibility." "Be  quiet,"  she  exclaims  angrily, 
"no  responsibilities  for  me.  The  only  thing  in 
the  world  I  have  a  taste  for  is  boring  myself 
to    death."     She  hears    Tesman    approaching. 

219 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

"Yes,  as  I  thought!  Here  comes  the  Professor." 
And  while  Brack  in  a  tone  of  warning  whispers, 
"Come,  come,  come,  Mrs.  Hedda,"  her  hus- 
band reappears. 

The  previous  appearance  of  Tesman  had 
drawn  from  her  an  expression  of  weariness; 
this  one  an  exclamation  of  disdain.  Hedda's 
lack  of  sympathy  with  her  husband  is  develop- 
ing into  positive  distaste. 

Scene  III 

Tesman,  dressed  for  the  party,  inquires  if 
any  message  has  come  from  Eilert.  No,  then 
he  will  certainly  call.  His  mind  is  dwelling  on 
the  latter's  rivalry,  for  he  braces  himself  up 
with  Aunt  Julia's  belief  that  Eilert  will  not 
stand  in  his  way.  It  leads  Hedda  to  remark 
that,  if  Eilert  calls  and  will  not  go  with  the 
others  to  the  party,  he  can  spend  the  evening 
with  her.  "Will  it  quite  do  for  him  to  remain 
with  you.^"  urges  the  correct  Tesman;  and  this 
permits  the  information  that  Mrs.  Elvsted  is 
expected. 

Brack  thinks  that  to  remain  with  the  ladies 
will  be  the  safest  thing  for  Eilert,  since  his  (the 
Judge's)  parties  are,  as  Hedda  once  declared, 

220 


The  Development 

"adapted  only  for  persons  of  the  strictest  prin- 
ciples." **But  no  doubt,"  retorts  Hedda,  "Mr. 
Lovborg's  principles  are  strict  enough."  **A 
converted  sinner."  On  these  words  Berta 
enters  to  announce:  "There's  a  gentleman  ask- 
ing if  you're  at  home,  Ma'am." 

This  short  scene  has  provided  for  Lovborg's 
entrance  and  for  Mrs.  Elvsted's  reappearance. 
It  has  also  emphasized  the  character  of  Judge 
Brack's  bachelor  parties. 

Scene  IV 

Eilert  enters.  He  is  slim  and  lean,  somewhat 
worn  out.  Dark  hair,  pale  face,  and  color 
on  his  cheekbones.  Dressed  in  a  new  well-cut 
suit  —  rather  embarrassed  in  manner. 

Tesman  welcomes  him  warmly.  "Will  you 
too  shake  hands  with  me,  Mrs.  Tesman.?" 
She  does  so,  and  adds,  "I  don't  know  whether 
you  two  gentlemen — "  "Judge  Brack,  I 
think,"  says  Lovborg,  bowing  slightly;  with  an 
equally  formal  acknowledgment,  Brack  mur- 
murs, "Oh  yes  —  in  the  old  days,"  but  is 
interrupted  by  Tesman,  who  begs  Eilert  to  make 
himself  at  home  and  immediately  refers  to  the 
book.     Lovborg    treats    it    lightly.     "There    is 

221 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

very  Httle  in  it  —  I  put  nothing  into  the  book 
but  what  every  one  will  agree  with.  But  when 
this  one  appears" — and  he  draws  the  manu- 
script from  his  pocket.  "It  deals  with  the 
future."  "But,  good  heavens,"  objects  Tes- 
man,  "we  know  nothing  of  the  future."  (Mark 
this.)  "And  yet,"  replies  Lovborg,  "there  is  a 
thing  or  two  to  be  said  about  it  all  the  same." 
He  shows  the  manuscript.  No,  it  is  not  in  his 
own  handwriting;  he  dictated  it.  He  would 
like  to  read  some  of  it  to  Tesman  this  even- 
ing. 

The  latter's  engagement  to  the  bachelor  party 
is  mentioned,  but  Brack  invites  Eilert  to  join 
them.  He  declines.  Tesman  urges  him  to 
accept,  but  Hedda  intervenes.  "Mr.  Lovborg 
would  rather  remain  here  and  have  supper  with 
me."  "With  you,  Mrs.  Tesman .?"  "And  Mrs. 
Elvsted."  "In  that  case,"  says  Eilert,  "I  will 
remain." 

Hedda  retires  to  the  hall  to  confer  with  Berta. 
A  short  conversation  between  Tesman  and 
Eilert  reveals  that  the  latter  has  no  intention 
of  competing  for  the  professorship;  it  is  only 
"the  moral  victory"  that  he  cares  for.  As 
Hedda  re-enters,  Tesman  exclaims,  "Hedda  — 

222 


The  Development 

just  fancy  —  Eilert  Lovborg  is  not  going  to 
stand  in  our  way."  **Our  way?"  is  her  curt 
reply.     "Pray  leave  me  out  of  the  question.'* 

Cold  punch  has  been  served  in  the  inner  room 
and  Hedda  invites  the  gentlemen  to  take  some. 
Lovborg  declines,  and  to  Brack's  remark,  "Cold 
punch  is  surely  not  poison"  —  replies,  "Per- 
haps not  for  every  one."  Hedda  will  keep  "Mr. 
Lovborg"  company,  while  the  others  retire 
into  the  inner  room  for  drinks  and  cigarettes. 
They  seat  themselves  in  view  of  the  audience; 
Judge  Brack,  where  he  can  keep  an  eye  on 
Hedda  and  Lovborg,  who  under  cover  of  look- 
ing at  some  photographic  views  of  the  Alps 
converse  together. 

The  object  of  this  scene  is  to  acquaint  us  with 
the  character  of  the  relations  that  have  pre- 
viously existed  between  the  two,  —  between 
Eilert  and  the  woman,  whose  shadow,  as  Mrs. 
Elvsted  said,  stands  between  herself  and  Eilert. 
Note  that  the  explanation  of  this  intimacy  has 
been  reserved  for  the  moment  when  the  knowl- 
edge of  it  will  be  most  effective;  namely,  im- 
mediately in  advance  of  the  development  of 
the  action,  that  follows  in  the  next  scene.  Now 
and  then  the  conversation  is  interrupted  by  the 

223 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

entrance  of  Tesman,   which  affords  the  rehef 
of  a  moment's  grim  humor. 

Lovborg  immediately  addresses  Hedda  by 
her  maiden  name.  *'Hush,"  she  says,  "that 
was  my  name  in  the  old  days,  when  we  two  knew 
each  other."  He  upbraids  her  for  her  marriage. 
"How  could  you  throw  yourself  away  on  George 
Tesman.?"  He  persists  in  the  familiarity  of  the 
:^  pronoun  du.     "You  may  think  it,"  she  says, 

"but  you  mustn't  say  it."  "What  an  offence 
against  Tesman  whom  you  —  love."  "Love," 
she  retorts;  "what  an  idea!"  but  adds,  "I  won't 
hear  of  any  sort  of  unfaithfulness, remember  that." 
Did  love  enter  into  their  old  relations .? 
Hedda  thinks  it  was  rather  the  intimate  frank- 
ness of  two  good  comrades ;  and  they  recall  how, 
while  the  General  sat  over  in  the  window  read- 
ing his  paper,  they  would  be  close  together  by 
the  table,  always  with  the  same  illustrated 
paper  before  them,  just  as  they  now  have  the 
album  of  photographs,  and  Hedda  used  to  put 
round-about  questions,  so  as  to  make  Eilert 
confess  all  his  escapades  to  her.  What  was  her 
motive.?  "Do  you  think  it  quite  incompre- 
hensible.?" asks  Hedda,  "that  a  young  girl, 
when  it  can  be  done  —  without  any  one  knowing 

224 


The  Development 

—  should  be  glad  to  have  a  peep,  now  and  then, 
into  a  world  that  she  is  forbidden  to  know  any- 
thing about?'*  Then  it  was  "comradeship  in 
the  thirst  for  life  "  —  why  could  it  not  continue  ? 
"The  fault  was  yours,  Eilert  Lovborg;  how 
could  you  think  of  wronging  your  frank  com- 
rade?" He  asks  her  why  she  did  not  shoot 
him  then,  as  she  threatened?  She  replies,  "the 
dread  of  scandal,"  and  he  retorts,  "Yes,  Hedda, 
you  are  a  coward  at  heart."  She  admits  it:  "a 
terrible  coward";  then  reminds  him  he  has 
found  consolation  at  the  Elvsteds.  Perhaps  he 
has  confided  to  Thea  something  about  Hedda 
and  himself?  "No,  she  is  too  stupid  to  under- 
stand anything  of  that  sort."  "Stupid?"  re- 
plies Hedda,  "and  I  am  cowardly."  And  then 
she  confides  to  him:  "the  fact  that  I  dared 
not  shoot  you  down  was  not  my  most  arrant 
cowardice  —  that  evening."  "O  Hedda!"  he 
exclaims,  "Hedda  Gabler,  after  all,  then,  it 
was  your  craving  for  life."  "Take  care,"  she 
whispers,  "believe  nothing  of  the  sort." 

Twilight  has  begun  to  fade.  The  hall  door 
is  being  opened.  Hedda  closes  the  album  with 
a  bang.     "Thea,  at  last!     My  darling  Thea  — 

come  along." 

225 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

Hedda  and  Eilert  —  they  are  both  revealed 
—  passionate  and  unprincipled;  she  only  de- 
terred by  cowardice;  he  the  sport  of  any 
moment's  emotion.  He  is  not  loyal  even  to 
Thea  who  has  saved  him.  Hedda  knows  that 
the  only  influence  she  has  or  ever  can  exert  over 
him  is  through  gratifying  "the  thirst  for  life"; 
whilst  Thea  has  established  with  him  a  com- 
radeship that  for  the  time  changed  his  nature. 
Thea,  too,  has  proved  herself  no  coward.  She 
may  be  stupid,  but  she  has  dared  to  obey  the 
call  of  her  will. 

We  are  now  prepared  for  the  culminating 
phase  of  the  Development. 

Scene  V 

Enter  Mrs.  Elvsted — Hedda's  "Darling 
Thea." 

Immediately  the  idea  of  Lovborg's  emotional- 
ism is  developed.  His  fervor  towards  Hedda 
has  cooled  down;  he  is  under  the  spell  of  Thea. 
"Is  not  she  lovely  to  look  at  —  we  are  two  real 
comrades.  She  and  I  —  we  have  absolute  faith 
in  each  other."  Thea  adds,  "  Only  think  — 
he  says  I  have  inspired  him."  "And  then  she 
is    so    brave,    Mrs.    Tesman."     "Ah — yes  — 

226 


The  Development 

courage.  If  one  only  had  that,"  exclaims 
Hedda,  "then  life  would  perhaps  be  liveable 
after  all." 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  seems  like  a  benig- 
nant Peri,  welcoming  the  entrance  of  others 
into  Paradise,  while  she  herself  must  remain 
outside.     Then  a  change. 

**My  dearest  Thea,  you  really  must  have  a 
glass  of  cold  punch."  "Well,  then — you,  Mr. 
Lovborg?"  "But  if  I  say  you  shall.?  Ah," 
she  laughs,  "then  I,  poor  creature,  have  no  sort 
of  power  over  you."  "But  seriously  —  for  your 
own  sake"  —  "or  rather  for  the  sake  of  other 
people"  —  "they  may  suspect  that  you  do  not 
feel  confident  in  yourself.  I  saw  Judge  Brack's 
contemptuous  smile,  when  you  dared  not  go 
with  them  into  the  inner  room."  "Dared  not!" 
exclaims  Lovborg,  "do  you  say  I  dared  not.?" 
"No,  I  don't  say  so;  but  that  is  how  Judge 
Brack  understood  it."  "Well,"  retorts  Lov- 
borg, "let  him." 

No,  Hedda,  of  herself,  has  no  sort  of  power 
over  him.  Thea,  trembling  with  anxiety,  still 
holds  him  by  her  influence.  It  is  through  Thea 
that  Hedda  will  work  his  ruin. 

"Faithful  to  your  principles:  that  is  what  a 
227 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

man  should  be.'*  She  turns  to  Thea  and 
caresses  her.  "What  did  I  tell  you,  when  you 
came  to  us  this  morning  in  such  a  state  of  dis- 
traction, in  such  a  mortal  terror.?"  "Distrac- 
tion,'* Lovborg  bursts  out,  "in  mortal  terror  on 
my  account  —  so  that  was  my  comrade's  frank 
confidence  in  me.**  He  raises  a  glass.  "Your 
health,  Thea"  — drains  it,  and  raises  a  second. 
"Oh,  Hedda,  Hedda,"  pleads  Thea,  "how 
could  you  do  this.?"  "I  do  it.?"  "I?  — are 
you  crazy?"  No,  it  was  Thea's  doing  after 
all;  that  partial  weakness  of  her  own  will. 

"Here's  to  your  health,  too,  Mrs.  Tesman. 
Thanks  for  the  truth.  Hurrah  for  the  truth." 
He  empties  the  glass  and  is  about  to  refill  it. 
Hedda  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Come, 
come,  no  more  for  the  present.  Remember 
you're  going  out  to  supper."  He  puts  down  the 
glass  and  turns  to  Thea.  "Tell  me  the  truth  — 
did  your  husband  know  that  you  had  come  after 
me?"  Misunderstanding  the  cause  of  her 
anguish,  he  bursts  into  excitement  about  her 
husband,  and  again  seizes  a  glass,  and  is  again 
checked  by  Hedda. 

His  emotionalism  takes  a  swift  change. 
"Don*t  be  angry  with  me,  my  dear,  dear  com- 

228 


The  Development 

rade.  You  shall  see  that  if  I  was  fallen  once,  I 
have  risen  again.     Thanks  to  you,  Thea.'* 

The  other  two  men  return  to  the  room. 
Lovborg  announces  his  intention  of  coming  to 
the  party.  At  ten  or  thereabouts  he  will  call  in 
to  see  Mrs.  Elvsted  home.  "I  hope,"  remarks 
Brack,  "we  shall  have  a  lively  time,  as  a  cer- 
tain fair  lady  puts  it."  "Ah,"  retorts  Hedda, 
*'if  only  the  fair  lady  could  be  present,  unseen, 
to  hear  a  little  of  your  liveliness  at  first  hand. 
Judge  Brack."  He  laughs:  "I  should  not 
advise  the  fair  lady  to  try  it." 

As  the  men  go  out,  Berta  enters  with  a  lighted 
lamp.  Thea  wanders  restlessly  about  the  room. 
"Hedda,  Hedda,  what  will  come  of  all  this.?" 
"  At  ten  o'clock  he  will  be  here  —  with  vine- 
leaves  in  his  hair  —  flushed  and  fearless.  He 
will  have  regained  control  over  himself.  Then 
he  will  be  a  free  man  for  all  his  days.  You 
may  doubt  him  —  I  believe  in  him."  "Hedda, 
you  have  some  hidden  motive."  "Yes,  Thea, 
I  have.  I  want  for  once  in  my  life  to  mould  a 
human  destiny.  I  have  not  the  power  —  I  have 
never  had  it.  Oh,  if  you  could  only  understand 
how  poor  I  am.  And  fate  has  made  you  so 
rich." 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

She  clasps  Thea  passionately.  "I  think  I  must 
burn  your  hair  off  after  all."  Thea  struggles. 
"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!  I  am  afraid  of  you, 
Hedda." 

Berta  announces  that  tea  is  ready.  "We  are 
coming,"  replies  Hedda. 

"No,  no,  no,"  replies  Thea.  "I  would  rather 
go  home  alone  —  at  once!" 

"Nonsense!  First  you  shall  have  a  cup  of 
tea,  you  little  stupid.  And  then  —  at  ten 
o'clock  —  Eilert  Lovborg  will  be  here  —  with 
vine-leaves  in  his  hair." 

She  drags  Thea,  almost  by  force,  to  the  inner 
room. 

Curtain 

The  motive  and  character  of  the  coniflict  has 
been  fully  developed.  We  await  the  climax. 
It  is  being  decided  during  the  interval  that 
separates  us  from  the  third  act. 


230 


CHAPTER  X 

CLIMAX DENOUEMENT CATASTROPHE 

IN  my  copy  of  Hedda  Gabler  the  Introduction 
and  Development  occupy  115  pages,  while 
only  70  suffice  for  the  remainder;  being  divided 
nearly  equally  between  the  Climax  on  the  one 
hand,  and  on  the  other  the  Denouement  and 
Catastrophe.  It  would  be  a  mistake  to  try 
and  deduce  from  this  fact  any  actual  calculation 
as  to  the  ratio  which  the  several  divisions  of  a 
play  should  bear  to  one  another.  Yet  it  indi- 
cates what  in  a  general  way  is  true  of  all  plays, 
that  the  Introduction  and  Development  demand 
a  proportionately  longer  treatment;  a  certain 
deliberation  in  acquainting  the  audience  with 
what  precedes  the  commencement  of  the  action 
and  with  the  unfolding  of  the  action  itself. 
This  being  done,  the  action  quickens;  frequently 
the  Climax  is  reached  in  a  few  swift  bounds,  and 
a  corresponding  speed  and  tensity  mark  the 
clearing  up  of  the  action,  while  the  Catastrophe 
or  Conclusion  is  compressed  into  a  very  short 

231 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

space  of  time.  It  is  in  compliance  with  these 
conditions  that  we  have  devoted  a  proportion- 
ately excessive  time  to  the  study  of  the  first  two 
divisions  of  the  play,  and  will  now  by  the  brief- 
ness of  our  summary  recognize  the  comparative 
swiftness  of  the  succeeding  ones. 

The  Climax  of  a  play  need  not  necessarily 
culminate  in  a  striking  situation.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  in  Hedda  Gabler  it  does:  Hedda's 
burning  of  Eilert's  manuscript.  But  one  should 
not  expect  or  demand  any  such  overt  act  as 
essential  to  the  climax.  The  latter  should 
rather  be  regarded  as  the  turning-point  in  the 
action.  Here  the  action  has  reached  its  most 
important  point  in  relation  to  the  principal 
characters  or  character;  the  decisive  moment 
has  come  to  which  all  that  preceded  was  but  a 
premise  and  all  that  follows  is  only  a  logical  con- 
clusion. The  Climax,  therefore,  must  be  built 
up  of  all  that  has  gone  before.  It  must  not  be 
contrived  by  the  dragging  in  of  some  situation 
that  has  not  actually  grown  out  of  the  whole 
previous  action,  bone  of  its  bone,  flesh  of  its 
flesh.  It  is  because  the  Climax  of  Paid  in  Full 
is  not  compounded  of  the  elements  that  have 
gone  before  that  one  may  criticize  it  adversely. 

232 


Z 

SI 


Q 


Climax  —  Denouement  —  Catastrophe 

It  represents  an  excrescent  rather  than  an 
inherent  growth.  It  involved  another  fault  in 
that,  when  it  had  taken  place,  there  was  prac- 
tically an  end  of  the  action;  nothing  left  to  be 
cleared  up,  and  only  a  conclusion  so  obvious 
—  namely,  that  the  wife  could  not  longer  live 
with  her  husband  —  that  the  fourth  act,  in 
which  this  only  is  evolved,  was  a  tedious  pro- 
longing of  the  play.  The  suspense  and  interest 
of  the  audience  had  been  exhausted.  They 
were  merely  inconvenienced  by  being  detained 
in  their  seats  for  no  dramatic  purpose. 

The  Climax,  then,  while  it  is  at  the  end  of  the 
beginning  of  the  action,  is  also  at  the  beginning 
of  the  end.  Though  decisive,  it  is  not  in  itself 
final.  It  has  brought  the  action  to  a  pass, 
where  doubt  or  suspense  is  aroused  as  to  what 
the  end  will  be. 

Let  us  summarize  the  stages  of  the  action  that 
lead  immediately  to  the  Climax  in  Hedda  Gabler. 
Following  the  quick  and  excited  finale  of  the 
second  act,  the  third  one  opens  with  a  few 
minutes'  deliberate  retarding  of  the  action. 
It  is  a  good  example  of  the  value  of  contrast. 

Curtains  drawn,  lamp  low,  a  sort  of  stifled 
atmosphere     pervades    the    scene.     Hedda    is 

233 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

asleep.  Thea  sitting  up,  weary  with  watching. 
We  learn  that  outside  it  is  long  past  daybreak. 
Hedda  wakes.  The  talk  is  of  what  may  have 
happened  during  the  night.  There  is  nothing  to 
do  but  to  wait,  and  Hedda  induces  Thea  in  the 
meanwhile  to  go  upstairs  and  to  try  to  get  some 
sleep.  Hedda  herself  is  chilly  and  is  putting 
wood  on  to  the  stove  as  Tesman  enters,  tired 
and  serious.  He  has  read  some  of  Eilert's  book 
and  confesses  to  a  horrid  feeling  of  jealousy. 
Eilert  at  the  orgie  made  a  rambling  speech  of 
how  some  woman  had  inspired  him,  then,  com- 
ing away,  dropped  the  manuscript.  Tesman 
picked  it  up  and  has  brought  it  with  him. 
Hedda  inquires  if  such  a  thing  can  be  repro- 
duced, written  over  again;  impossible,  for  it 
depended  on  the  inspiration.  Tesman  opens  a 
note  that  arrived  a  few  moments  before  he 
entered.  Aunt  Rina  is  dying.  He  hurries  away, 
leaving  the  manuscript,  which  Hedda  conceals 
in  a  drawer  as  Judge  Brack  arrives. 

The  latter  talks  about  the  orgie;  how  Eilert 
and  some  others  finished  up  in  the  rooms  of  the 
"red-haired  singer,"  where  Eilert,  discovering 
the  loss  of  something,  raised  a  scrimmage  which 
brought  the  police,  who  arrested  him  and  the 

234 


Climax  —  Denouement  —  Catastrophe 

others.  Brack  does  not  conceal  his  satisfaction, 
for  now  the  Tesmans  cannot  receive  Eilert,  and 
he  himself  loses  a  troublesome  rival.  He  retires 
by  way  of  the  garden,  and  shortly  Eilert  hurries 
in. 

In  a  few  minutes  Thea  reappears.  Eilert 
tells  her  it  must  be  all  over  between  them;  she 
can  be  of  no  more  service  to  him;  she  must  go 
back  home.  Never:  she  will  stay  by  him  and  see 
the  book  published.  "It  can  never  appear," 
replies  Eilert,  "I  have  torn  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces."  *'It  is  child-murder,"  cries  Thea, 
*'you  have  killed  our  child." 

But  when  Thea  has  gone  out,  Eilert  in  a  scene 
of  terrible  intensity  confesses  that  he  has  lost 
the  "child"  in  the  riot  of  last  night:  there  is 
nothing  left  for  him  to  but  make  an  end  of  it  all. 
Hedda  urges  him  to  "do  it  beautifully,"  and 
hands  him  one  of  the  pistols. 

Left  alone,  she  puts  the  manuscript  into  the 
stove.  "I  am  burning  your  child,  Thea;  I  am 
burning  your  child." 

To  one  who  studies  this  scene  carefully  it  is 
evident  that  there  is  not  a  single  detail  in  it  for 
which  provision  has  not  been  previously  made. 
It  is  to  the  minutest  particular  related  organi- 

235 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

cally  to  what  has  gone  before.  Even  the  strange 
request  that  ended  with  "do  it  beautifully" 
has  been  prefigured  in  the  allusion  to  his  appear- 
ing with  vine-leaves  in  his  hair.  This  was  one 
of  the  latest  touches  in  the  previous  act;  it  is 
developed  here,  and  will  form  an  important 
feature  in  the  Denouement.  It  reveals  one 
more  strand  in  the  strangely  tangled  web  of 
Hedda's  character:  a  horror  of  ugliness,  a  need 
to  have  even  the  horrors  of  life  disguised  in 
beauty. 

*^0  ^f  ^U  ^u  ^0  ^f 

0^  #^  •^  *^  ^^  *^ 

When  the  Denouement  brings  bit  by  bit  the 
description  of  Eilert's  end,  this  last  desperate 
hope  of  hers,  in  some  way  to  influence  him 
beautifully,  is  shattered.  His  end  was  ugly. 
Another  phase  of  the  Denouement  proceeds  from 
the  incident  of  handing  him  the  pistol.  Brack, 
having  discovered  that  it  is  Hedda's;  he  has  a 
hold  over  her.  The  third  element  of  the  De- 
nouement evolves  itself  from  the  question  raised 
in  anticipation  of  the  Climax:  the  manuscript 
having  been  inspired  as  it  was,  can  it  be  repro- 
duced .''  Yes,  Thea  still  has  the  notes ;  Tesman 
will  co-operate  with  her  in  bringing  back  to  life 

236 


Climax  —  Denouement  —  Catastrophe 

her  "child"  and  Eilert's.  Thea's  will  triumphs. 
Hedda,  reduced  to  the  last  extremity,  of  knowing 
that  her  will  is  at  the  beck  and  call  of  Brack, 
shoots  herself  with  the  remaining  pistol. 

Thus  the  Denouement  not  only  clears  up  the 
circumstances  attending  the  death  of  Eilert, 
but  by  developing  another  element  of  Hedda's 
character,  of  which  a  hint  had  already  been 
given,  it  invests  the  death  with  a  certain  fresh- 
ness of  interest  and  sustains  our  interest  in  the 
principal  personage  of  the  play.  A  similar  use 
is  made  of  the  clearing  up  of  the  wrong  done  to 
Eilert  and  Thea  by  the  burning  of  the  manu- 
script. It  also  reacts  on  the  principal  per- 
sonage, completing  her  discomfiture.  Hedda's 
sands  have  run  completely  down  before  she 
resorts  to  the  Catastrophe. 

In  a  word,  from  first  to  last  the  play  is  com- 
pounded of  parts  organically  related  to  each 
other  and  to  the  whole. 


237 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE   MOTIVE    OF   THE   PLOT 

PERHAPS  I  may  be  criticised  for  what  will 
seem  to  some  readers  the  undue  space 
devoted  to  the  study  of  a  single  play.  If  so, 
I  must  have  the  courage  of  my  judgment,  and 
take  the  consequences.  But  once  more  let  me 
explain  the  reason  of  my  judgment.  I  might 
have  illustrated  the  several  divisions  of  a  drama 
by  reference  to  a  great  number  of  plays  of 
various  dates  and  character.  My  experience, 
however,  of  such  a  method  is  that  it  leaves  a 
rather  shallow  impression  on  the  mind,  whereas 
what  the  genuine  student  is  looking  for  and, 
I  think,  is  entitled  to  expect,  is  that  his  mind 
shall  receive  the  imprint  of  something  definite. 
He  seeks  a  solid  basis  on  which  he  may  take  his 
stand,  and  which  may  serve  as  a  starting-point 
for  wider  and  wider  study.  Such  a  basis  he 
can  find  in  the  play-form  we  have  selected  for 
analysis. 

It  is  the  type  to  which  the  modem  drama  is 
238 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

shaped;  and  it  affords  a  standard  by  which 
older  types  may  be  compared  and  appreciated. 
For  it  is  a  type  that  is  rigidly  scientific  in  its 
character,  and,  as  we  have  already  noted,  the 
best  works  of  art  have  a  scientific  basis.  Rodin 
once  remarked  that  "art  is  founded  on  math- 
ematics, only  the  artist  must  not  let  his 
mathematics  grow  cold."  He  must  use  the 
mathematics  with  a  warmth  of  imagination, 
fluency  of  handling  and  mastery,  that  are 
elements  in  the  art  with  which  he  conceals 
his   art. 

Similarly,  if  we  ourselves  can  master  the  value 
and  the  method  of  the  mathematics  involved  in 
the  technique  of  a  single  play,  so  scientifically 
constructed  as  Hedda  Gabler,  we  only  need  a 
little  imagination,  and  some  fluency  in  the  hand- 
ling of  our  knowledge,  to  apply  it  to  any  play, 
old  or  modern.  We  shall  find,  for  example, 
that  corresponding  mathematics  characterize 
the  technique  of  the  Greek  tragedy;  the  differ- 
ence between  the  latter  and  our  model  being 
only  one  of  degree.  The  Greek  is  not  so  com- 
plex or  so  threaded  through  and  through  with 
significances  of  detail,  because  the  motive  is 
neither  realistic  nor  so  penetratingly  pyscholog- 

239 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ical.  The  issues  are  treated  in  a  more  general 
spirit  of  universal  significance,  and  the  form 
into  which  they  are  cast  is  consequently  on 
broader  and  simpler  lines.  But,  if  we  analyze 
a  Greek  tragedy,  we  shall  find  that  tl^e  action 
marches  from  stage  to  stage  of  the  five  divisions 
and  with  a  steadiness  of  tread  and  a  compact- 
ness of  rank-formation,  as  resolute  and  inevi- 
table as  in  the  drama  we  have  studied. 

In  Shakespeare,  too,  the  action  progresses 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  five  stages;  but  for 
the  most  part  not  with  the  same  steadiness  and 
compactness.  The  treatment  still  bears  the 
traces  of  the  Mediaeval  play-form  out  of  which 
it  grew,  and  is  affected  also  by  the  influence 
of  the  "novels"  from  which  the  story  of  the  plot 
was  so  often  derived.  Its  march  is  looser  in 
formation  and  straggles  over  a  wider  field. 
Often  the  action  involves  more  than  one  motive, 
combining  at  least  a  twofold  thread  of  interest. 
In  a  word,  it  is  the  material  that  Shakespeare 
used,  and  his  own  point  of  view  towards  it,  that 
determined  the  actual  mold  into  which  he  cast 
the  form  of  his  drama.  And  both  were  charac- 
teristic of  the  "spacious  times*'  of  the  Renais- 
sance, when  human  nature  had  burst  forth  in 

240 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

countless  streams  of  individual  energy;  just  as 
the  springs  in  the  hills,  let  loose  after  the  frosts 
of  winter,  mingle  with  one  another,  and  flowing 
on,  fed  by  myriad  other  streams,  swell  to  a 
mighty  torrent  that  urges  its  career  to  the  ocean. 
It  was  this  boundless  activity  of  human  energy, 
glittering  and  many  colored  under  the  sun  of 
the  poet's  imagination,  that  provided  the  ma- 
terial and  suggested  the  treatment  of  Shake- 
speare's dramas;  and  the  form  they  received  was 
a  necessary  one  for  the  embodiment  of  the 
action.  When  we  apply  to  it  the  test  of  the 
form  we  have  selected  as  a  type  of  study,  we 
notice  at  once  the  difference  and  the  reason  of 
it.  We  shall  not,  however,  deplore  Shake- 
speare's lack  of  scientific  clearness  and  cohesion ; 
the  looseness  of  the  fundamental  mathematics 
of  his  technique;  on  the  contrary,  we  shall 
recognize  that  the  play-forms  he  constructed 
were  suitable  to  the  embodiment  of  the  themes 
he  selected  and  the  manner  in  which  he  chose 
to  view  them.  Nor  shall  we  fail  to  notice  that 
in  his  later  plays,  in  Macbeth  and  in  Julius 
Cwsar^  for  example,  when  his  style  had  thor- 
oughly matured,  both  the  material  and  the 
play-form  exhibit  a  marked  change.     The  plot 

241 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

has  been  unified,  character  more  closely  ana- 
lyzed, and,  as  a  result,  the  play-form  is  more 
compact. 

In  great  contrast  to  Shakespeare's  motive  and 
method  are  those  of  the  French  tragedian, 
Racine.  They  represented  a  rebound  from 
exuberance  of  material  and  treatment  to  the 
severer  form  of  the  Athenian  and  Roman  drama, 
of  which  they  were  a  conscious  emulation. 
That  they  were  so,  was  not  in  its  origin  a  pedan- 
tic revival ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  the  expression 
of  that  instinct  for  "architectonics,"  or  the 
art  of  logical  construction,  that  characterizes 
the  French  genius.  The  French  are  the  true 
remnant  of  the  classical  ideal ;  and  it  was  natural 
that  they  should  experiment  with  the  classic 
forms  of  the  drama.  In  time,  however,  state- 
liness  of  structure  stiffened  into  mannerisms, 
and  exalted  sentiment  and  diction  were  replaced 
by  empty  and  pretentious  bombast,  which,  in 
turn,  produced  a  reaction. 

It  took  the  shape  of  the  Romantic  motive. 
It  was  no  new  force  in  drama;  for  Shakespeare's 
Romeo  and  Juliet  is  not  alone  among  his  plays 
in  being  romantic;  and  Corneille,  inspired  by 
the  example  of  Spanish  romances,  wrote   The 

242 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

Cid.  But  it  was  reserved  for  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  and  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  to  develop  the  Romantic  motive  to 
a  point  that  for  a  time  established  its  supremacy. 
Originating  with  Goethe,  it  culminated  in  Victor 
Hugo.  It  was  the  direct  antithesis  of  the  for- 
malism of  the  classic  drama.  As  befitted  the 
times  that  gave  it  birth,  its  motive  was  the 
assertion  of  the  individual,  and,  not  so  much 
a  reasoning  individual,  as  one  possessed  by  and 
at  the  mercy  of  emotions.  The  theme  is  human 
passion,  regarded  as  the  be-all  and  the  end-all 
of  existence.  The  situations  in  which  the  con- 
flict of  passions  is  enacted  must  share  their 
color  and  violence,  their  freedom  from  the 
ordinary  restraints  of  e very-day  life.  They  must 
be  wild  and  varied,  fruitful  in  surprises.  So, 
too,  with  the  treatment  of  the  theme.  Poetry  is 
its  natural  medium;  but  a  poetry  not  submitting 
to  the  rules  of  classic  tradition ;  on  the  contrary, 
teeming  with  the  spontaneous  force  of  the 
author's  own  impetuous  personality.  Daring 
therefore  takes  the  place  of  logic;  the  author 
does  not  lead  the  mind  on  step  by  step  to  a  con- 
clusion that  is  acceptable  to  reason;  he  takes 
captive  the  imagination,  and  either  sweeps  it 

243 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

onward    in    a    torrent    of    emotion    or    lures    it 
through  the  glamour  of  the  senses. 

In  the  Romantic  Drama,  therefore,  while  the 
progress  of  the  action  corresponds  in  principle 
to  that  of  the  scientific  model,  we  shall  not  look 
for  such  severity  of  design  or  for  so  close  a  tissue 
of  related  parts.  To  repeat  our  former  simile 
of  a  Venetian  mural  decoration,  the  design  will 
be  characterized  by  amplitude  of  masses,  laid 
on  with  a  big  brush,  filled  with  glowing  color. 
Moreover,  instead  of  an  exact  logic  regulating 
every  part,  the  relation  of  the  masses  and  colors 
will  compel  our  admiration  rather  by  the  daring 
of  their  contrasts  and  by  the  surprises  of  their 
similarities.  In  a  word,  we  shall  have  to  extend 
our  idea  of  the  probabilities;  we  shall  not  judge 
them  by  the  standard  which  we  apply  to  the 
relations  of  every-day  life;  on  the  contrary,  we 
are  prepared  to  be  astonished,  to  find  ourselves 
confronted  with  strange  and  unexpected  situa- 
tions and  with  characters  more  pronounced 
than  usual.  We  shall  expect  to  be  transported 
into  an  atmosphere  tense  with  excitement, 
heavy  with  passion,  portending  storm,  that  may 
be  followed  by  clearing  sunshine  or,  more  likely, 
by  the  wrack  of  devastation. 

2U 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

It  was  only  natural  that  a  motive,  demanding 
so  exuberant  a  personality  on  the  part  of  the 
playwright,  should  in  time  spend  itself,  exhausted 
by  its  own  excess  of  vitality.  But  there  was 
another  reason  for  its  temporary  disappearance- 
Both  in  literature  and  in  painting  it  dwindled 
before  the  onward  movement  of  the  scientific 
spirit  that  was  penetrating  the  mind  of  the 
mid-century.  No  less  eagerly  than  the  natural- 
scientists  themselves  did  the  novelists,  drama- 
tists, painters,  and  sculptors  study  nature.  The 
prevailing  motive  of  the  young  and  ardent  now 
became  the  Naturalistic;  the  representation  of 
man,  as  he  is  seen  to  be  in  the  surroundings  that 
he  naturally  occupies. 

As  the  student  of  modern  literature  and 
painting  knows,  this  Naturalistic  motive  in 
time  developed  two  manifestations.  AMiile  the 
Realist  applied  a  minute  and  extended  study 
to  the  phenomenon  he  had  selected  to  represent, 
the  iTTvpressionist  sought  to  convey  the  instant 
impression  produced  upon  his  eye  and  mind  by 
its  momentary  appearance.  At  that  first  single 
glance  he  could  not  see  everything;  he  would 
therefore  put  down  only  what  he  could  see,  in 
all  the  fervor  and  spontaneousness  of  the  first 

245 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

impression.  By  degrees  the  Impressionist 
came  to  attach  more  importance  to  his  own 
impression  of  the  phenomenon  than  to  the 
latter  itself.  His  idea  was  that,  if  people  de- 
sired exact  knowledge  of  the  phenomenon,  they 
should  resort  to  photography  or  to  a  personal 
examination  on  their  own  behalf.  What  was  of 
supreme  value  in  a  work  of  art  was  a  manifesta- 
tion of  the  artist's  own  impression.  Even  the 
Impressionist,  however,  could  not  detach  him- 
self from  the  scientific  spirit  that  was  in  the  air. 
It  led  him  to  a  very  exact  study  of  one  element 
in  the  phenomenon;  namely,  the  quality  and 
quantity  of  the  lighted  atmosphere  in  which  it 
appeared.  He  realized  how  much  his  own 
impression  was  affected  by  the  conditions  of  the 
light,  as  they  themselves  affected  the  forms  and 
the  colors  of  what  he  saw.  Accordingly,  the 
appearance  of  the  lighted  medium  became  a 
specific  feature  of  his  study;  and  the  rendering 
of  it  an  important  characteristic  of  his  recorded 
impression. 

This  allusion  to  Impressionism  has  shaped 
itself  into  words  that  are  especially  applicable  to 
painting;  and  quite  naturally,  for  it  was  the 
painters  who  first  suggested  this  motive  to  the 

246 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

modern  mind.  How,  then,  is  this  motive  repre- 
sented in  the  drama?  We  will  note  this  pres- 
ently, meanwhile  observing  that  it  is  represented 
by  no  means  so  directly  and  exclusively  as  that 
other  naturalistic  motive  —  Realism. 

The  latter  has  for  a  long  time  been  the  key- 
note of  the  modern  drama;  and  it  was  for  this 
reason  that  we  selected  Hedda  Gabler  as  a 
model  for  study.  It  is  an  example  of  the 
realistic  motive,  influenced  by  the  scientific 
spirit.  That  is  to  say,  its  motive  is  not  merely 
to  portray  real  characters  in  relation  to  real 
surroundings  and  situations;  but,  on  the  one 
hand,  to  dissect  and  lay  bare  the  characters 
with  the  impersonal  scrutiny  and  thoroughness 
of  the  anatomist,  and  to  analyze  the  relation  of 
character  to  environment  with  the  precision  of 
the  chemist;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  expend 
a  science,  akin  to  that  of  the  architect's,  in  build- 
ing up  the  elements  of  the  action  into  a  logically 
complete  structure.  It  is  the  scientific  point  of 
view,  exhibited  alike  in  analysis  and  construc- 
tion, that  distinguishes  the  truly  realistic  drama 
of  modern  times  from  some  which  by  compari- 
son may  be  called  pseudo-realistic. 

The  latter,  both  in  the  exaggeration  of  melo- 
247 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

drama  and  in  the  severer  form  of  drama,  affect 
a  reaUsm  that  at  best  is  merely  superficial.  It 
breaks  down  altogether  when  any  sort  of  scien- 
tific test  is  applied  to  it.  In  the  first  place,  the 
characters  are  broadly  generalized;  only  here 
and  there  in  the  case  of  a  principal  personage 
do  we  find  any  suggestion  of  a  distinct  individ- 
uality, much  less  any  insight  into  the  workings 
of  his  or  her  mind.  Indeed  the  intention  has 
rather  been  to  sketch  a  personage  that  will  be 
at  once  recognized  by  the  greatest  number  of 
people  as  a  familiar  type.  It  is  by  this  means 
that  a  bid  is  made  for  popularity,  and  the  latter 
is  usually  secured.  The  audience,  recognizing 
the  type,  lends  itself  uncritically  to  an  easy 
enjoyment  of  the  play.  If  this  were  all,  how- 
ever, there  would  be  comparatively  little  for  the 
more  critical  to  object  to,  since,  surely,  there  is 
a  place  on  the  stage  for  a  portrayal  of  life  in 
its  broad  outlines,  as  well  as  in  its  intimate 
personal  aspects.     But  usually  this  is  not  all. 

The  pseudo-realist,  using  the  naturalistic  mo- 
tive, not  with  the  seriousness  of  an  artist  who 
studies  life,  but  with  the  shrewdness  of  the 
opportunist  who  aims  only  at  popularity,  clut- 
ters  up  his   scene   with   a   superabundance   of 

248 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

realistic  details  and  of  realistic  bits  of  business. 
He  knows  the  fondness  of  the  ordinary  public 
for  a  picture  in  which  they  can  find  the  repre- 
sentation of  a  great  number  of  objects  that  look 
"so  natural  like,"  and  he  plays  upon  it.  He 
introduces  into  the  scene,  horses,  cows,  donkeys, 
fire-engines,  or  express  trains,  and  his  audience 
is  thrilled  with  delight;  inside  his  painted  well 
he  sets  a  pan  of  water,  and  people  come  on  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  ladle  some  of  it  into 
'a  bucket,  whilst  the  audience  nudge  themselves 
and  whisper  in  awed  amazement:  "See,  it's 
real."  Or  he  will  suspend  the  action  of  the 
piece,  that  the  principal  character  may  go  to  a 
cupboard  to  change  his  coat  or  hunt  for  his 
slippers,  while  the  audience  giggles  with  delight 
at  a  patch  on  the  old  man's  shirt-sleeve  or  a 
darn  in  his  worsted  socks.  Or,  when  the 
climax  of  the  action  is  approaching,  he  will 
obscure  the  effect  by  bringing  in  a  band  to 
operate  the  national  anthem,  and  children  to 
execute  a  patriotic  drill.  These  are  but  a  few 
out  of  the  countless  devices  that  the  fertile  brain 
of  the  pseudo-realist  evolves  to  produce  what 
he  is  pleased  to  call  "local  color";  and  the 
audience,   enamored  of  seeing  something  that 

249 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

looks  **so  natural  like,"  applaud  the  ingenuity 
by  which  they  are  deluded  into  belief  that  all 
this  is  very  artistic. 

It  is  not  artistic,  because  it  interferes  with  that 
harmony  of  relation  which  should  distinguish 
the  ensemble  of  a  work  of  art.  It  distracts 
attention  to  details,  which  are  not  essential  to 
the  main  conception  of  the  theme;  but  are 
treated  by  the  playwright  or  stage-manager  as 
important  in  themselves,  and  are  so  regarded 
by  the  inartistic  public.  The  net  result  of  this 
confusion  of  unnecessary  accessory  with  the 
main  fabric  of  the  action  is  equivalent  to  the 
kind  of  painting,  made  familiar  by  the  old 
Dusseldorf  school  of  painting  and  painters  of 
the  type  of  J.  G.  Brown.  No  man  is  more 
popular  than  the  latter  with  uneducated  pic- 
ture-lovers. They  delight  to  run  their  eyes 
over  the  clothes  of  the  little  shoeblack,  and  note 
the  exactness  with  which  each  button  and  patch 
and  seam  is  represented;  and  then  to  examine 
in  detail  the  blacking-bottles,  brushes,  and  other 
accessories  of  his  occupation.  They  do  not 
recognize  that  in  the  separate  insistence  upon 
each  and  every  one  of  these  bits  of  detail  the 
painter  has  frittered  away  the   significance  of 

250 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

his  composition  as  a  whole,  until  in  the  artistic 
meaning  of  the  term  it  is  no  longer  a  pictorial 
composition,  because  it  lacks  the  unity  which 
results  from  subordination  of  detail,  but  is 
instead  a  collection  of  odds  and  ends,  such  as 
might  be  paralleled,  for  example,  in  the  contents 
of  a  lady's  work-box. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  they  would  study  a  really 
artistic  example  of  genre  painting,  a  picture,  for 
instance,  by  Terborch,  Vermeer,  or  one  of  the 
other  masters  of  the  Dutch  School  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  they  will  find  that,  while  the 
details  may  be  as  numerous  as  in  the  other  pic- 
ture, they  are  subordinated  to  some  central 
idea,  usually  the  creation  of  a  harmonious  en- 
semble of  related  colors  and  of  effects  of  light 
and  shade.  The  picture  counts  first  and  fore- 
most as  a  perfectly  balanced  unity. 

In  a  play,  of  course,  the  central  idea  should 
be  the  main  theme,  embodied  in  the  action. 
This  should  be  paramount.  Anything  that 
delays  or  distracts  or  obscures  its  steady,  inevi- 
table, sustained  marching  onward  is  false  in 
art.  It  may  "please  the  groundlings,  but  should 
make  the  judicious  grieve." 

Then,  again,  the  pseudo-realism  of  a  drama 
251 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

may  be  exhibited  in  the  lack  of  probability  or 
suitability,  attending  the  introduction  of  the 
various  situations.  The  point  is  that,  if  the 
author  selects  as  his  theme  a  story  from  real 
life,  and  peoples  his  scene  with  real  types  of 
human  character,  he  is  under  an  obligation  to 
represent  them  in  circumstances  that  we  can 
accept  as  possible,  and  to  make  them  conduct 
themselves  in  such  manner  as  they  probably 
would  do  under  the  given  conditions.  Nor  does 
this  imply  that  the  circumstances  must  be  such 
as  one  would  have  expected.  We  know  that  in 
real  life  it  is  the  unexpected  that  often  happens. 
But,  as  we  have  already  noted,  life  and  art  are 
not  the  same  thing.  A  work  of  art,  even  though 
based  on  real  life,  must  have  a  unity  of  its  own, 
a  composition  of  harmoniously  related  parts. 
Or,  applying  this  test  to  a  drama,  even  the  un- 
expected must  be  given  some  show  of  inherent 
possibilities.  It  will  involve  a  surprise,  but 
must  not  shock  us  by  its  incongruity.  Thus  in 
The  Old  Homestead,  when  the  father  comes  to 
New  York  and,  happening  to  walk  down 
Broadway  at  night-time,  meets  his  *' erring  son," 
whom  he  has  not  seen  for  many  a  long  day,  we 
may  be  as  surprised  as  he  is.     But  is  the  chance 

252 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

of  meeting  incredible  ?  In  actual  life  it  cer- 
tainly is  not.  In  the  play,  however,  what  is  the 
impression  created  ?  Has  the  author  so  arranged 
the  meeting,  or  made  some  preparation  for  the 
possibility  of  it,  that  we  can  accept  it  as  an 
unexpected  yet  reasonable  event;  or  does  it  leave 
the  impression  of  a  device,  resorted  to  in  de- 
fiance of  probability,  solely  for  the  purpose  of  a 
theatric  situation?  This  question  has  been 
raised  in  connection  with  the  very  play  that  we 
have  selected  as  a  model.  It  has  been  objected 
that  Lovborg  would  not  be  likely  to  carry  his 
manuscript  about  with  him.  But  Ibsen  takes 
pains  in  more  than  one  place  to  make  this  rea- 
sonable by  suggesting  Lovborg's  eagerness  to 
get  Tesman's  opinion  on  it.  When,  however, 
toward  the  end  of  the  play,  Thea  is  made  to 
produce  the  notes  of  the  burnt  manuscript  from 
her  pocket,  the  probabilities  are  somewhat 
strained.  This  unexpected  happening  is  neces- 
sary to  the  Denouement,  since  it  enables  Thea 
and  Tesman  to  get  to  work  at  once  upon  the 
rewriting  of  the  book;  but  can  we  accept  it  as 
justified  by  inherent  probability.?  Some  critics 
refuse  to  do  so.  Others  admit  the  improbability 
of  the  device,  but  pass  it  over  as  of  little  im- 

253 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

portance,  compared  with  the  value  of  the  situa- 
tion that  it  is  the  means  of  creating.  And, 
after  all,  this  will  often  be  the  test  that  it  is  best 
to  apply.  We  shall  overlook  an  apparent  strain 
upon  our  credibility,  if  the  end  seems  to  justify 
the  means.  For,  if  it  does,  this  may  be  regarded 
as  at  least  one  way  of  securing  a  harmony  of 
relation  between  the  parts  and  the  main  theme. 
Frequently,  however,  the  improbability  of 
situations  and  the  introduction  of  unnecessary 
and  distracting  details  are  associated  with  weak- 
ness in  the  portrayal  of  character.  That  the 
latter  should  be  represented  in  broad  outlines  is 
not,  as  we  have  suggested,  necessarily  incon- 
sistent with  truth  to  life.  The  type  may  be 
based  upon  actual  observation  of  human  nature. 
But  too  often  in  plays  of  the  pseudo-realistic 
brand  the  types  of  character  are  merely  repeti- 
tion of  stage  types,  which  in  their  origin  may 
have  had  a  basis  in  actual  life,  but  have  lost 
their  truth  of  resemblance;  just  as  the  face  on 
an  old  coin  may  be  worn  out  of  all  semblance 
to  the  original  design  by  constant  handling  and 
passing  on  from  one  person  to  another.  The 
stage-father,  of  the  genial  and  indulgent  or  the 
crotchety  and  domineering  variety;  the  meddle- 

254 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

some  mother-in-law;  the  comic  policeman;  the 
smart  servant  or  simpering  ingenue;  the  villain 
with  his  waxed  moustache  and  cigarettes;  the 
young  cub  of  a  lover,  or  the  ogling  old  dandy 
—  these  and  other  well-worn  stage  puppets 
are  constantly  reappearing  even  in  the  modern 
dramas  that  pretend  to  realism.  They  may 
masquerade  under  new  names,  but  they  are 
the  same  old  types  that  have  become  staled 
and  disfigured  by  reiteration.  With  such,  even 
in  the  new  dresses  of  the  latest  fashion,  criticism 
should  have  no  patience. 

A  variant  on  this  tendency,  to  substitute  for 
real  human  beings  the  shadow  of  a  shadowy  is 
the  practice  of  providing  some  actor  or  actress 
with  continuous  opportunities  of  reproducing 
some  type  in  which  he  or  she  has  gained  popu- 
larity. Even  granted,  which  is  not  always  the 
case,  that  the  original  type  was  based  upon 
truth  to  nature,  it  grows  by  reiteration  to  be 
more  and  more  mechanical.  It  is  hard  enough 
for  even  a  conscientious  actor  to  maintain  the 
freshness  and  spontaneity  of  a  real  creation 
through  the  wearing  and  deadening  processes  of 
a  long  run.  But  what  is  to  become  of  him,  if 
at  the  end  of  the  run  he  is  compelled  to  take  up 

255 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

a  similar  part,  thinly  disguised  under  a  new 
name,  to  dress  it  and  depict  it  along  the  same 
lines,  and  to  repeat  himself  in  this  way  not  once, 
but  indefinitely;  as  long,  in  fact,  as  the  public 
will  applaud  ?  It  is  almost  impossible  for  him 
not  to  become  a  mere  puppet,  whose  actions  are 
jigged  to  rusty  wires.  As  a  rule  he  makes  a 
virtue  of  necessity;  callously  ignores  the  ideals 
with  which  he  started  out  to  be  an  artist,  and  sets 
himself  to  the  mechanical  task  of  reproducing 
the  old  shocks  of  emotion  or  points  of  humor 
by  devices  that  repetition  has  ossified  into  mere 
tricks  and  antics  of  voice  and  gesture. 

Unfortunately  it  is  just  this  shop-worn  stuff 
that  commands  the  highest  money  reward. 
And  why.?  Simply  because  of  the  infatuation 
of  an  unthinking  public  for  following  one  an- 
other's tails  in  an  endless  circle.  The  same 
sheep-like  behavior  is  exhibited  in  the  matter 
of  pictures.  If  a  painter  is  so  unfortunate  — 
from  the  point  of  view,  I  mean,  of  his  artistic 
development  —  as  to  make  a  popular  success 
by  painting  a  certain  kind  of  subject  in  a  certain 
kind  of  way,  straightway  the  public  enters  into 
a  tacit  conspiracy  to  prevent  him  from  doing 
anything  else.     Those  who  in  buying  pictures 

256 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

follow  the  lead  of  other  buyers  —  and  they  are 
the  majority  —  demand  of  the  painter  a  similar 
brand  of  goods  to  that  which  he  has  furnished 
to  the  other  so-called  connoisseurs  and  patrons 
of  art.  Their  clap-trap  word  is  "characteristic." 
They  want  something,  as  they  style  it,  charac- 
teristic of  the  painter.  If  the  latter,  being  a 
strong  man,  and  independent,  replies:  "My 
character,  by  which  I  presume  you  mean  my 
personality,  is  necessarily  something  that  must 
change  with  time  and  experience.  I  hope  it 
will  grow  in  power  and  freedom;  it  is  my  pur- 
pose that  it  shall,  for  otherwise,  since  change  is 
inevitable,  it  will  become  impotent  and  slavish. 
Therefore  let  me  sell  you  something  that  I 
honestly  believe  is  characteristic  of  the  develop- 
ment which  my  art  has  achieved  since  its  first 
success."  —  If  he  should  be,  from  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  so  independent  as  to  say  this,  the 
sheep-like  connoisseurs  will  tell  him  to  go  hang. 
He  must  repeat  himself,  or  they  wash  their 
hands  of  his  pig-headedness.  Dare  we  blame 
him,  if  compelled  by  the  rigors  of  necessity,  or 
even,  if  lured  by  the  bait  of  easy  competence, 
he  throws  his  scruples  and  ideals  to  the  winds 
and  consents  to  prostitute  himself.''     If  he  has 

257 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

a  sickly  conscience  he  will  continue  to  the  end 
a  disappointed  man;  if  his  conscience  be  of  a 
plethoric  kind,  impervious  to  pricks,  he  will 
wax  fat  and  put  on  the  airs  of  a  "leading  artist.'* 

It  is  precisely  this  debasing  influence  that  is 
brought  to  bear  on  dramatic  art.  Actors  and 
actresses,  who  started  their  careers  with  high 
ideals  concerning  the  dignity  of  their  Art  and 
keen  aspirations  to  develop  themselves  to  the 
utmost  in  its  service,  are  lured  into  the  paths 
of  easy  virtue  and  prostitue  themselves  and 
their  art  at  the  clamoring  of  a  sheepish  public, 
which  dulls  their  consciences  with  bleating  that 
they  are  "favorite  artists,"  Favorites,  yes; 
but  artists?  Surely  their  accomplishments  are 
of  another  order  —  commercial.  If  we  must 
find  a  name  for  them,  let  it  be  rather  successful 
artizans  of  dramatic  industry;  and  let  the  play- 
wrights who  pander  to  these  commercial  con- 
ditions take  their  proper  place,  not  as  dramatic 
architects,  but  theatric  jerry-builders. 

However,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  it  is  our- 
selves, the  audiences,  who  are  chiefly  to  blame. 
These  conditions,  to  some  extent,  must  always 
exist,  since  the  majority  of  playgoers  will  con- 
tinue to  be  like  sheep.     But  they  will  be  alle- 

258 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

viated  as  the  number  of  independent  playgoers 
increases,  resulting  in  the  demand  for  plays 
that  no  longer  repeat  stale  types,  and  in  the 
encouragement  of  actors  and  actresses,  who 
would  set  the  dignity  of  their  art  and  their  own 
personal  liberty  as  artists  above  considerations 
of  mere  lucre. 

Now  that  we  have  examined  sundry  qualities 
which  distinguish  pseudo-realism,  it  remains 
to  note  a  flaw  inherent  in  what  is  recognized  as 
the  true  type  of  realistic  motive.  It  is,  in  a  word, 
a  tendency  to  limit  its  own  horizon;  and  it  does 
so  in  two  ways.  In  the  first  place,  occupied 
with  character  and  conduct  as  they  are  objec- 
tively exhibited,  it  is  disposed  to  recognize  no 
other  test  of  either  than  a  physiological  one; 
and  to  ignore  the  influence  of  soul  or  spirit. 
Secondly,  as  a  later  development  of  this  attitude, 
it  makes  the  actual  conflict  of  passion  or  emo- 
tion its  sole  concern;  excluding  all  reference  to 
moral  considerations.  The  one,  in  fact,  with 
ethical  or  moral  intent  curtails  the  springs  of 
ethical  and  moral  action;  the  other  is  entirely 
unethical,  non-moral.  The  latter,  which  repre- 
sents the  defect  of  the  realistic  motive  in  its 
latest  and  extreme  form,  may  be  considered  first. 

259 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

It  has  become  a  practice  of  some  authors  — 
and  they  are  among  the  most  skilful  of  modern 
playwrights  —  to  treat  the  stage  as  a  cockpit 
of  the  passions.  Into  the  contracted  arena  of 
some  situation,  from  which  there  is  no  possible 
escape,  they  turn  loose  two  characters,  as  if 
they  were  a  brace  of  game-birds.  Then,  as  the 
inevitable  conflict  ensues,  they  note  and  gloat 
over  each  attack  and  parry,  and  follow  eagerly 
each  throe  and  spasm  of  anguish,  until  one 
or  both  of  the  combatants  succumbs.  The  con- 
flict is  waged  for  no  principle,  it  is  no  part  of 
the  universal  struggle;  it  is  an  isolated  fight 
put  up  and  studied  and  enjoyed  for  its  own  sake ; 
the  author  goading  on  the  game-birds,  and  the 
audience  invited  to  sit  around  the  cockpit  and 
feast  on  horror. 

As  an  example  of  this  kind  of  realistic  motive, 
I  do  not  think  it  is  unfair  to  mention  Anthony 
P.  Wharton's  very  clever  play,  Irene  Wycherley 
produced  last  season  in  London  and  New  York. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  the  conflict  is  one 
between  a  husband  and  wife.  The  former  is 
not  only  degraded  by  drink  but  horribly  dis- 
figured through  a  gun-explosion;  a  foul-mouthed, 
vile-minded   brute,   on   the   verge   of   paralysis. 

260 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

The  wife  in  mind  and  body  is  a  splendid  crea- 
ture to  whom  the  contact  of  the  husband  is  a 
pollution.  But  being  a  Roman  Catholic,  she 
is  debarred  from  divorce;  and  her  father-in-law, 
to  save  the  appearances  of  the  family,  dissuades 
her  from  separation.  So  the  cockpit  is  con- 
structed. There  is  no  escape  from  it  except 
through  the  death  of  the  husband.  This,  of 
course,  we  foresee,  but  are  compelled  to  wait 
for  until  the  end  of  the  play.  Meanwhile  all 
that  is  left  to  us  is  to  watch  the  woman's  phases 
of  agony  and  shame,  as  insult  and  outrage  are 
heaped  upon  her  by  the  loathsome  wretch, 
whom  the  author  has  pitted  against  her  to 
satisfy  our  lust  for  horrors.  There  is  no  pre- 
tence, as  far  as  I  can  see,  of  challenging  the 
religious  contention  that  even  such  a  marriage 
must  be  indissoluble,  or  of  impugning  such  a 
method  of  saving  the  appearances  of  the  family. 
No  moral  or  economic  issue  is  raised;  nor  any 
problem  as  to  what  the  end  will  be.  The  only 
problem  is  as  to  what  particular  phases  of  degrada- 
tion will  be  experienced  before  the  end  is  reached. 
It  is,  if  I  have  judged  the  play  fairly,  the  exploita- 
tion of  a  conflict  merely  for  the  sake  of  the 
shocks  and  thrills  that  it  can  be  made  to  yield 

261 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

That  the  horrors  of  this  particular  play  were 
gross  in  character  is  only  incidental.  Often 
they  are  all  the  more  poignant  because  of  their 
refinement,  as  when  two  lovers,  inexorably 
separated,  torment  each  other  by  analyzing  the 
exquisite  emotions  they  might  have  experienced, 
if  only  destiny  in  the  shape  of  the  cockpit's  wall 
had  not  shut  them  out  from  the  liberty  of  love 
and  loving.  Here  the  author  uses  no  rude  stick 
to  goad  them  on;  instead  a  glittering  scalpel 
with  which  he  delicately  cuts  down  through  the 
warm  flesh  and  lays  bare  each  nerve  that  we 
may  see  it  quiver  under  the  excess  of  torture. 
Meanwhile  the  only  anaesthesia  that  he  permits 
the  lovers  is  their  own  absorbing  love  that  dulls 
the  pain  with  ecstasy.  Once  more  the  problem 
is  solely  the  manner  and  the  amount  of  suffering 
involved  in  a  purposeless  conflict. 

As  to  that  other  defect  of  a  great  number  of 
modern  Realistic  dramas  —  it  shows  itself  in  a 
tendency  to  limit  the  springs  of  human  action. 
While  the  problem  involved  is  based  on  ethical 
or  economic  principles,  its  solution  is  attempted 
by  reference  only  to  the  physiological  character- 
istics of  human  nature.  No  acknowledgment 
is   permitted    of   soul   or   spirit.     Because    the 

262 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

physiologist  cannot  put  his  finger  on  the  seat  of 
this  consciousness,  or  establish  its  organic  rela- 
tion to  the  physical  machinery  of  the  body,  he 
ignores  its  existence.  The  effects  of  heredity 
and  environment  he  believes  he  can  explain; 
the  existence  also  and  action  of  will,  as  a  product 
of  some  cellular  arrangement  of  the  brain;  but 
that  indefinable,  elusive  consciousness  that  hu- 
manity possesses  of  something  other  than  what 
is  attributable  to  purely  physical  causes,  because 
he  cannot  "place  it,"  he  refuses  to  take  into 
account. 

As  a  natural  philosopher  of  the  strictly 
objective  kind,  limiting  his  observations  to  what 
is  demonstrable  upon  the  dissecting  table  or 
attributable  to  the  discoveries  of  the  scalpel,  he 
is  consistent.  But  he  is  running  counter  to  the 
instinct  of  humanity,  which  in  all  ages  has  felt 
the  need  of  believing  in  the  possession  of  some 
sense  that  is  other  than  physical,  and  that  it 
vaguely  calls  spiritual.  Nor  may  the  time  be 
far  distant  when,  through  research  into  psychical 
and  telepathic  phenomena,  it  will  discover  even 
some  reasonably  scientific  basis  for  its  belief. 
Meanwhile  the  belief  endures,  and  men  and 
women,  not  all  perhaps,  but  most,  at  least  at 

263 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

some  period  of  their  lives,  acknowledge  the  soul 
or  spirit  as  a  source  of  human  conduct.  Conse- 
quently, when  they  find  this  continually  ignored 
in  the  realistic  drama,  they  resent  the  fact. 
They  find  the  problems  interesting,  but  the 
solution  suggested  uninspiring.  It  is  for  this 
reason,  one  may  suspect,  that  Ibsen,  for  example, 
is  not  popular.  People  resent  not  only  that  he 
compels  them  to  think,  but  that  his  thought 
seems  limited  in  range.  He  would  tether  them 
by  a  string  to  a  post,  fastened  in  the  ground,  and 
bid  them  flutter  round  and  round  it,  whereas 
there  is  that  in  them  which  makes  them  yearn  for 
further  flight.  They  do  not  object  to  his  argu- 
ing around  the  center  of  a  circle,  but  chafe  at 
the  contractedness  of  the  circumference. 

That  this  criticism  of  Ibsen  is  unjust,  the  result 
of  a  too  unimaginative  study  of  his  work  as  a 
whole  is  beside  the  point.  It  is  an  impression 
very  widely  held,  and  strengthened  by  acquaint- 
ance with  the  work  of  a  host  of  other  dramatists 
who  have  followed  him.  And  when  people 
speak  of  the  lack  of  optimism  exhibited  in  these 
plays,  it  is  probably  this  which  they  have  in 
mind.  They  do  not  demand  that  a  play  shall 
necessarily  end   happily;   but   they   do   believe 

264 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

that  the  continual  tendency  to  represent  men 
and  women  as  the  slaves  of  their  physiological 
selves,  incapable  of  rising  above  their  natures 
through  the  inspiration  of  soul,  is  a  phase 
of  pessimism.  They  recognize  the  good  that 
realism  has  done  in  restoring  the  drama  to  its 
relations  with  actual  life,  but  deplore  the  limit- 
ing of  that  relationship  to  the  sole  facts  of  the 
body,  in  defiance  of  what  they  believe  to  be  the 
claims  of  spirit.  For,  in  the  long  run,  they  are 
convinced  that  man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone. 
That  other  form  of  realism,  the  impression- 
istic motive,  is  represented,  as  we  have  said,  only 
to  a  small  extent  in  drama.  It  is  a  late  phase 
and  in  some  respects  is  the  product  of  a  reaction 
from  what  we  have  just  been  discussing.  As 
in  painting,  its  aim  is  to  suggest  the  impression 
produced  upon  the  mind  by  an  observation  of 
certain  facts;  the  facts  themselves  being  treated 
as  of  subordinate  importance.  In  Maeterlinck's 
Death  of  Tintagil,  for  example,  the  motive  is 
to  represent  through  dramatic  action  the  tragic 
inevitableness  of  death.  We  watch  a  woman's 
anxious  tenderness  for  a  child;  see  the  child 
lured  away  from  her,  and  the  woman's  anguish 
as  her  pursuit   is   barred   by  a  door  that  has 

^Q5 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

closed  upon  the  child.  The  treatment  of  the 
piece  is  symbolic;  but  of  this  we  will  speak 
presently,  noting  now  its  impressionistic  charac- 
ter. 

Just  as  impressionism  in  painting  has  been 
defined  as  "realism,  represented  in  its  milieu," 
that  is  to  say,  as  the  representation  of  the  real 
appearance  of  an  object  by  rendering  the  effects 
of  lighted  atmosphere  that  surround  it,  so 
Maeterlinck  has  invested  with  atmosphere  the 
persons  of  his  drama.  It  is,  of  course,  the 
spiritual  atmosphere  in  which  they  for  the  time 
being  move  and  have  their  being.  But  the 
analogy  with  painting  is  close;  for  the  painter 
by  rendering  the  lighted  atmosphere  in  his  pic- 
ture is  able  to  make  the  scene  express  the  mood 
of  feeling  with  which  it  has  inspired  himself  or 
he  wishes  to  inspire  us.  The  effects  of  lighted 
atmosphere  are,  indeed,  the  expression  on  the 
face  of  nature.  Similarly,  the  poet-dramatist 
sheds  around  his  personages  an  atmosphere  of 
suggestion  that  expresses  their  emotions  and 
stirs  our  own.  It  is  not  by  the  direct  import  of 
their  words  and  acts  that  we  are  moved,  but  in- 
directly through  some  subtle  suggestion  that  per- 
vades the  scene.     WTiile  in  a  realistic  drama, 

266 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

such  as  Hedda  Gabler,  our  mind  actively  follows 
each  step  in  the  progress  of  the  action,  in  the 
case  of  the  Death  of  Tintagil,  or  of  Pelleas  and 
Melisande,  our  mind  is  rather,  as  it  were,  in- 
duced into  a  trance,  during  which  it  becomes 
clairvoyant  to  psychic  suggestion.  This  will 
probably  sound  far-fetched  and  perhaps  a  little 
foolish  to  any  one  unfamiliar  with  these  dramas ; 
but,  if  he  will  study  them,  I  venture  to  believe 
he  cannot  fail  to  discover  the  quality  that  I  have 
tried  to  describe  in  words.  He  will  find  it  also 
in  two  remarkable  plays  by  the  Irish  dramatist, 
J.  M.  Synge:  The  Well  of  the  Saints  and  The 
Playboy  of  the  Western  World. 

When  we  come  to  analyze  the  means  by  which 
this  suggestion  of  the  spiritual  atmosphere  is 
produced,  we  shall  find  firstly  that  it  results 
from  the  dramatist's  intention  to  view  the  action 
in  relation  to  a  conception  vastly  larger  than 
itself;  and  secondly,  that  he  fulfils  his  intention 
through  the  poetic  use  of  words.  Thus,  it  is 
the  inconceivably  vast  conception  of  death  in 
relation  to  life,  that  surrounds  the  little  move- 
ments of  the  characters  in  The  Death  of  Tintagil 
with  an  envelope  as  illimitable  and  impenetrable 
as  the  firmament  of  ether.     And  in  this  firma- 

267 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

ment  the  mystery  of  their  lot  is  but  a  speck  of 
stellar  dust;  yet  it  has  in  it  the  germ  of  the 
million-fold  mystery  of  the  universe.  To  convey 
this  impression  to  our  spirit  the  dramatist  not 
only  draws  upon  a  copious  vocabulary,  but  has 
the  gift  of  investing  words  with  a  rich  imagery 
of  analogous  allusion;  so  that,  while  they  point 
a  direct  thought,  they  at  the  same  time  surround 
it  with  an  aura  of  impalpable  suggestion.  He, 
in  fact,  uses  his  words,  not  only  as  current  coin, 
but  also  as  symbols. 

This  being  so,  one  distinguishes  these  dramas 
as  symbolic  in  intent,  which  brings  us  to  a  con- 
sideration of  the  Symbolic  Motive.  It  is  in- 
spired by  the  dramatist's  desire  to  view  the  action 
in  relation  to  a  larger  significance  than  that 
immediately  arising  from  the  actual  incidents 
of  the  plot.  It  represents,  in  fact,  a  reaction 
from  the  purely  objective  motive  of  Realism, 
and  in  these  modern  times  it  expresses  itself  by 
means  of  the  principles  of  indirect  suggestion 
involved  in  Impressionism.  Its  prototype  is  to 
be  found  not,  as  we  have  seen,  in  Renaissance 
allegory;  but  in  Oriental  art,  in  Greek  art,  and 
in  Shakespeare. 

Oriental  art  is  saturated  with  symbolism;  and 
268 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

it  is  the  knowledge  of  that  art,  acquired  during 
the  past  forty  years,  which  has  helped  to  draw 
our  own  artists  toward  this  motive.  To  the 
symbolic  character  of  the  Greek  drama  w^e  have 
already  alluded;  and,  as  an  illustration  of  the 
occasional  appearance  of  it  in  Shakespeare,  we 
may  mention  the  scene  in  King  Lear,  where  the 
madness  of  the  elements  invests  the  madness  of 
the  old  king  with  a  wider  significance  than  that 
aroused  by  the  contemplation  of  one  poor  dis- 
traught brain.  Madness  is  abroad  in  the  uni- 
verse, just  as  devilment  is  felt  to  be  in  the 
Witches'  Scenes  of  Macbeth.  It  is  again  abroad 
in  the  Brocken  scene  of  Faust. 

It  is  because  Ibsen  avails  himself  of  the  re- 
sources of  symbolism,  that  the  common  judg- 
ment of  him  is,  as  we  said  above,  unjust.  The 
main  significance,  for  example,  of  Peer  Gynt  is 
symbolic.  The  scenes  in  which  he  plays  his 
part,  however  baldly  realistic  they  may  be  made 
to  seem  in  the  ordinary  stage  representation, 
are,  as  conceived  by  Ibsen,  full  of  suggestion  to 
the  spiritual  imagination.  Again,  in  The  Master 
Builder,  the  conception  of  the  Master  Builder 
himself  and  of  Hilda  are  instinct  with  symbolism, 
while  the  constant  allusions  to  the  tall  church 

269 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

spire  and  the  tower  above  the  house  lift  the 
mental  realization  of  the  action  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  incidents  actually  enacted.  So 
too  in  The  Lady  from  the  Sea,  to  mention  only 
one  more  example,  the  suggested  presence  of 
the  sea,  with  the  idea  of  freedom  that  it  involves, 
forms  a  background  of  larger  spiritual  intention 
behind  the  visible  and  audible  movement  of 
the  action. 

Maeterlinck's  use  of  the  symbolic  motive  we 
have  already  instanced,  and  in  the  same  connec- 
tion may  recall  Hauptmann's  Sunken  Bell  and 
Maxim  Gorky's  Nachtasyl.  But  our  object 
here  is  not  to  give  a  record  of  symbolists,  but  to 
note  this  revival  of  symbolism,  carried  further 
than  before,  as  one  of  the  signs  of  modern  drama. 

It  remains  to  suggest  the  dramatic  principle 
involved  in  its  use.  Symbolism  is  the  creation 
of  an  abstract  suggestion.  It  invests  the  action 
with  an  atmosphere  that  is  pregnant  with  stimu- 
lation to  the  imagination.  It  is  an  extension  of 
the  reality  of  the  concrete  by  the  suggestion  of 
the  latter's  relation  to  some  abstract,  universal 
conception.  It  is  possible  to  entertain  an  ab- 
stract conception  without  any  reference  to  the 
concrete ;  for  example,  an  abstract  conception  of 

270 


a 
a 

o 

X 

Q 


I 


The  Motive  of  the  Plot 

Truth.  On  the  other  hand,  we  may  embody 
this  in  a  concrete  representation  of  Truth; 
and  such  embodiment  is  what  allegory  is.  As 
Maeterlinck  says,  "allegory  is  the  work  born 
of  the  symbol;  but  the  work,"  he  adds,  "cannot 
have  the  principle  of  life."  By  this,  presumably, 
he  means  that  the  concrete  representation,  so 
born,  has  no  actual  independent  existence,  apart 
from  the  abstract.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  when 
the  symbol  is  born  of  the  concrete,  that  it  in- 
volves symbolism,  as  understood  and  used  by 
modern  writers.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  only  when 
the  concrete  has  a  living,  independent  existence, 
that  it  is  capable  of  giving  birth  to  the  abstract, 
symbolical  suggestion. 

Translated  into  a  principle  of  dramatic  tech- 
nique, as  it  has  been  by  modern  symbolists,  this 
implies  that  the  first  essential  to  symbolic  sug- 
gestion is  a  human  action,  a  conflict,  engaged  in 
by  actual  persons;  a  fabric  of  concrete  realism. 
This  the  dramatist,  if  the  action  of  his  "living 
human  beings"  inspires  him  to  it,  may  enrich 
with  symbolic  decoration.  The  latter  will  have 
grown  out  of,  because  suggested  by,  the  form 
and  moldings  of  the  concrete  fabric.  On  the 
other  hand,  for  the  dramatist  to  start  with  the 

271 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

symbolic  intention  and  to  invent  it  out  of  his 
own  head,  would  be  as  futile  as  for  an  architect 
to  begin  with  inventing  decorations  and  then 
to  try  to  make  them  stand  up  in  place,  without 
first  having  erected  a  building  to  support  them. 
It  is  the  lack  of  such  a  sub-structure  of  inde- 
pendent human  action,  vitally  interesting  in 
itself,  that  has  proved  fatal  to  some  attempts  at 
symbolic  drama. 


272 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE   AMERICAN   OUTLOOK 

IN  the  foregoing  pages  we  have  reviewed  some 
of  the  salient  considerations  that  affect  the 
appreciation  of  the  drama,  regarded  both  as  a 
form  of  art  and  as  an  expression  of  human  Hfe. 
It  is  natural,  in  conclusion,  to  inquire  how  far 
the  life  of  our  country  has  been  expressed  in  the 
form  of  native  drama.  Have  we  yet  any  drama 
that  can  be  called  essentially  American  ? 

There  have  been  dramas,  it  is  true,  and  good 
ones,  which  have  depicted  certain  phases  of 
American  history  and  certain  social  conditions 
incident  to  life  in  America.  They  naturally 
fastened  hold  of  the  interest  of  American  audi- 
ences and  in  some  cases  have  been  enthusiasti- 
cally received  by  foreign  playgoers.  The  latter 
have  found  them  racy  with  a  flavor  of  unusual- 
ness.  But  would  they  admit  that  they  exhibited 
any  fundamental  traits  which  could  be  dis- 
tinguished as  characteristically  American  ? 

This  question  in  connection  with  pictures 
273 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

was  raised  at  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1900. 
The  Frenchmen  had  been  told  of  the  great 
strides  which  painting  had  made  in  America, 
as  distinguished  from  the  painting  by  Ameri- 
cans who  resided  in  Paris,  and  they  looked  to 
find  something  that  could  be  identified  as  charac- 
teristic of  the  New  World.  They  found  it,  or 
rather  suspected  its  presence,  only  in  the  pic- 
tures by  Winslow  Homer.  For  the  rest,  they 
noted  that  the  technique,  which  was  of  admira- 
bly good  average,  was  a  reflex  of  the  teachings 
of  their  own  schools;  and  that  the  landscapes 
exhibited  a  certain  local  character,  different 
from  the  natural  conditions  with  which  they  were 
familiar,  while  now  and  then  a  figure  picture 
represented  some  incident  or  phase  of  life  that 
also  bore  an  unfamiliar  aspect.  But,  beneath 
these  surface  differences,  was  there  anything 
that  could  be  recognized  as  perhaps  funda- 
mentally American.?  They  suspected  it  only, 
as  I  have  said,  in  Winslow  Homer.  He  was 
represented  on  this  occasion  by  a  picture  of  a 
fox,  struggling  through  deep  snow,  while  a  bird 
of  prey  hovers  above  him,  and  by  a  Summer 
Night,  in  which  two  fisherwomen  are  revolving 
in  a  dance  by  the  edge  of  the  ocean,  over  which 

274 


The  American  Outlook 

the  sun  is  sinking  in  a  crimson  haze;  also  by 
The  Look  Out  —  AWs  Well  and  an  ocean  piece 
with  a  bit  of  the  wild  rocks  of  the  Maine  coast 
and  a  tumult  of  gray  water.  It  cannot  be  said  that 
either  of  these  represented  any  scene  sufficiently 
local  in  character  to  be  recognized  as  markedly 
characteristic.  It  was  in  fact  not  the  locality 
of  the  subject,  but  the  spirit  which  had  animated 
the  artist  in  his  rendering  of  it,  that  awoke  the 
interest  of  the  keenly  observant  Frenchmen. 
Susceptible  to  impressions,  they  were  conscious 
here  of  a  largeness  of  outlook,  and  of  freedom 
and  vigor  of  conception  and  treatment,  that 
seemed  to  them  characteristic  of  what  they  had 
heard  of  the  immensity  of  the  New  World,  and 
of  the  strenuousness  of  life  there  and  its  freedom 
from  Old  World  prejudices.  These  pictures, 
therefore,  seemed  to  strike  a  new  and  impressive 
note,  that  the  French  critics  eagerly  welcomed 
as  characteristically  American.  And,  I  repeat, 
they  found  it  only  in  the  work  of  Winslow 
Homer. 

Now  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  apposite  to 
the  inquiry,  whether  the  drama  in  America 
has  yet  shown  itself  to  be  characteristically 
American.     If  it  has,  or  when  it  does,  the  evi- 

275 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

dence  will  not  lie  in  certain  local  differences  but 
in  the  exhibition  of  a  spirit  that  is  a  part  of  the 
national  consciousness.  Moreover,  it  is  only  in 
this  sense,  that,  in  looking  back  upon  the  art  of 
any  country,  we  recognize  its  merit  as  an  expres- 
sion of  the  distinct  characteristics  of  a  nation 
or  a  school.  The  purely  local  differences,  as 
our  great  artist  and  critic,  John  la  Farge,  has 
said,  are  rather  an  element  of  weakness;  par- 
ticularly, if  the  artist  has  placed  upon  them  his 
main  reliance.  It  is  in  the  embodiment  of  the 
spirit  which  was  the  life-breath  of  the  people  of 
its  day,  that  the  art  of  any  period  can  be  reck- 
oned characteristic  in  the  highest  sense. 

This  fact  is  apt  to  be  overlooked  by  students 
both  of  painting  and  the  drama;  they  urge  that 
the  painter  and  playwright  should  occupy  him- 
self with  American  themes ;  and  rightly,  for  either 
artist  will  do  well  to  gain  his  inspiration  from 
what  is  most  familiar  and  congenial  alike  to  him 
and  to  his  public.  But,  if  this  is  all  that  they 
urge,  they  stop  short  of  demanding  the  really 
vital  thing.  They  urge  the  payment  of  "mint 
and  cummin,'*  but  "neglect  the  weightier  matter 
of  the  law." 

So  far,  it  appears  to  me  unquestionable  that 
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The  American  Outlook 

American  dramatists  have  simply  fished  upon 
the  edge  of  American  life  for  little  small  fry 
of  local  characteristics.  The  deep  wide  ocean 
of  its  life  they  have  neither  compassed  nor 
plumbed.  The  Great  Divide^  for  example,  one 
of  the  raciest  and  most  serious  of  American 
plays,  represented  but  a  dip  into  the  possibilities 
of  its  own  theme.  This  was  surely  the  psycho- 
logical divide  between  the  respective  tempera- 
ments of  a  woman,  a  product  of  the  old  culture 
of  the  East,  and  of  a  man  who  represented  the 
newer  conditions  of  the  Western  frontier.  In 
the  play  itself,  however,  the  problem  merely 
glimmered  through  the  action,  in  which  the 
subtlety  of  the  psychological  plot  was  over- 
powered by  the  emphasis  laid  on  the  purely  local 
characteristics.  And  yet  this  drama  may  be 
hailed  as  the  nearest  approach  to  a  drama 
characteristically  American  in  the  true  sense. 

Into  what  the  latter  implies  we  may  gain  a 
further  insight  by  recalling  that  phrase  which 
French  critics  apply  to  the  Scandinavian  and 
German  drama.  Among  the  different  writers 
and  their  differences  of  motive  and  method  they 
recognize  a  certain  note  in  common,  which  they 
call  the  "Northern  Spirit."     It  will  be  when 

277 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

criticism,  especially  foreign  criticism,  which  has 
the  advantage  of  a  long-distance  perspective, 
can  detect  a  corresponding  American  spirit  in 
our  drama,  that  the  latter  will  be  in  the  true 
sense  characteristically  American. 

May  one  venture  a  forecast  of  the  quality  of 
that  note  in  common?  It  will  not  have,  like 
the  *' Northern  Spirit,"  a  quality  of  pessimism. 
On  the  contrary,  one  may  believe  that  its  dis- 
tinction will  be  optimistic.  Yet  not  in  that  tire- 
some sense  of  assuming  that  everything  is  for 
the  best  and,  therefore,  of  refusing  to  take 
account  of  anything  that  jars  with  this  assump- 
tion. The  optimism  will  not  reveal  itself  in 
assertions  and  reiterations  of  self-satisfaction  or 
in  an  ostrich-like  avoidance  of  the  serious 
problems  of  life;  it  will  not  in  fact  be  an 
article  of  faith;  but  the  product  of  a  habit  of 
conviction.  Its  presence  will  be  felt  in  the 
drama,  as  we  feel  the  air  upon  the  mountains, 
a  tonic,  laden  with  the  liberty  and  vigor  of  vast 
spaciousness. 

At  present  the  American  dramatist  shows  a 
tendency  to  be  an  opportunist;  to  take  advan- 
tage of  some  theme  uppermost  in  the  public 
mind  and  to  treat  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 

278 


The  American  Outlook 

man  or  woman  in  the  street.  He  cannot  or  will 
not  view  it  in  its  big  significance,  or  bring  to 
bear  upon  it  the  judgment  of  a  high  and  wide 
outlook.  Such  is  the  weakness,  if  I  mistake 
not,  of  plays  like  The  Lion  and  the  Mouse  and 
The  Witching  Hour.  Their  theme  is  a  big 
one,  treated  however  in  a  petty  way. 

On  the  contrary,  when  the  truly  characteristic 
American  drama  arrives,  it  will  be  distin- 
guished by  largeness  of  outlook  and  treatment, 
by  the  equivalent  of  that  spirit  which  opened 
up  the  West  and  has  raised  the  material 
and  political  importance  of  the  country  to  its 
present  height.  While  its  technique  may  be 
based  on  the  Old  World  models,  the  handling 
of  its  theme  will  reflect  the  social  ideals  of  the 
New.  It  will  be  essentially  a  drama  of  liberty; 
viewing  the  problems  that  it  presents  in  relation 
to  the  national  ideal  of  equal  chances  for  all, 
and  with  an  independence  of  judgment  that  has 
in  it  something  of  prophetic  vision.  At  present 
it  is  only  American  in  the  local  sense,  of  repre- 
senting incidents  drawn  from  American  life,  its 
attitude  towards  which  is  as  cramped  as  the 
spirit  of  the  national  life  is  free. 

In  promoting  the  American  spirit  in  our 
279 


The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama 

drama  the  pubhc  will  have  to  play  its  part.  We 
began  this  book  and  may  well  finish  it  with  a 
reference  to  audiences,  since  on  them  in  the 
final  analysis  rests  the  responsibility  for  what  the 
drama  is  and  is  not.  As  long  as  they  are  con- 
tent to  frivol  with  the  drama  merely  as  a  form 
of  amusement  and  to  visit  the  theater  in  order 
to  stifle  the  yawns  of  existence,  regarding  the 
people  on  the  stage  as  a  bunch  of  performing 
animals,  so  long  will  much  of  the  drama  be 
foolishness,  verging  on  vulgarity.  Again,  as  long 
as  they  hesitate  to  regard  the  drama  as  being 
a  vital  medium  for  the  representation  of  the 
actualities  of  life,  so  long  will  their  taste  for  the 
"pink-tea"  variety  be  catered  to.  Moreover, 
as  long  as  they  demand  that  the  actual  problems 
of  existence  shall  be  reflected  in  the  drama,  but 
are  careless  as  to  whether  the  problem  be  a  vital 
one  or  its  solution  be  of  large  significance,  so  long 
will  the  dramatist  be  tempted  to  play  merely  upon 
the  fringe  of  life.  In  short,  it  will  only  be  when  a 
considerable  part  of  audiences, habitually  viewing 
life  in  a  spirit  of  mental  liberty  and  independence, 
shall  demand  to  have  life  so  represented  on  the 
stage,  that  the  characteristically  American  drama, 
instinct  with  the  American  spirit,  will  arrive. 

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